Page 473 of Rosetti Family New York
For seventeen years, mornings meant instant black coffee and tactical assessment of the day's survival requirements. Now they mean measuring cream and wondering if the woman in my apartment will still be here next week.
The terror of that possibility makes my jaw clench.
"Van?" Her voice, sleep-rough and warm, makes something in my chest unlock despite the morning's hypervigilant start.
She appears in the kitchen doorway wearing my gray sweater and nothing else, dark curls sleep-mussed, green eyes soft with trust. The sweater drowns her small frame, one bare shoulderexposed where it's slipped down. Christ, she looks young in the steel gray morning light filtering through blinds I never fully open.
"Coffee's ready." I slide her mug across the counter, watching her wrap both hands around the ceramic exactly like I predicted.
She takes a sip, eyes closing. "Perfect."
The word lands hard. Perfect—something I've never been, never could be after what happened overseas. But this one small thing, this domestic ritual I can execute, earns that word from lips that taste like heaven.
Three sharp knocks on the door shatter the morning quiet.
My body shifts to combat mode instantly—hypervigilance spiking, hand moving toward the weapon I keep holstered beneath the counter. Nobody knocks at 0430 hours without purpose. Carmela's grip tightens on her mug, but she doesn't panic. Just watches me with those eyes that see too much.
"Stay here," I order, voice dropping to command register.
She nods, pressing herself against the counter as I move toward the door. Military training takes over—checking the peephole first, cataloguing threats. Expensive suit visible through the fisheye lens. Cigarette smoke curling in the hallway. Professional stance that screams dangerous despite the lack of visible weapons.
I open the door with my body blocking any sight line to Carmela, ready to slam it shut or strike if needed.
The man in my hallway looks like money and violence had a particularly well-dressed child. Charcoal suit that costs more than most people's cars. Dark eyes that assess me with the kind of precision I recognize in fellow soldiers. The cigarette between his fingers burns steady, ash perfectly centered like even his vices require control.
"You have thirty seconds to explain why you're at my door before dawn." My hand stays near the concealed weapon, body positioned to strike.
He takes a slow drag of his cigarette, studying me with unsettling calm. Then he pulls out a business card with one hand, the other gripping a manila envelope. The card reads: Dante Rosetti
Rosetti. The name makes my jaw clench. One of Carmela's cousins, I suppose. The tactical stance, the way he moves—this isn't some pampered mob prince. This is someone who's seen real combat.
"Carmela never mentioned a Dante," I say, not moving from the doorway.
He pulls out his phone and types something into it, then turns the screen so I can read it.
Carmela is in danger. We need to discuss.
His gaze shifts slightly, like he can sense her presence behind me even though she's hidden.
"Dante?" Carmela's voice carries shock as she appears beside me despite my order to stay back. "Oh my God, how are you?"
He taps his throat with two fingers, then writes:Old injury. Can't speak. Here to help.
The tension in my shoulders doesn't ease. A Rosetti who can't speak but still commands this much presence means something violent happened to him. Something that left him damaged but dangerous.
"How did you find us?" I demand.
He writes again:Family always knows. Torrinos escalating. You need resources.
"I don't need—"
"Van." Carmela's hand finds my arm, her touch grounding me before I can finish the refusal. "Let him in."
Every instinct screams against it. Another player in this game, another variable I can't control. But the surveillance photos he's holding, the professional assessment in his eyes—he has intel we need.
I step aside, letting him enter while keeping my body between him and Carmela. He moves through my apartment with asoldier's awareness, noting exits and defensive positions before settling at the kitchen table.
The cigarette gets extinguished in perfect silence. Then he spreads the photos across my table.
