Chapter 6 - What He Was Willing to Lose
Forty-eight million dollars should have changed how I felt.
It didn’t.
The number sat on a page like something fictional.
I still worried about my mother’s hospital bill.
Still owned shoes with worn soles.
Still had unpaid rent on an apartment in Queens.
And suddenly lawyers were explaining that Gabriel DeLuca had hidden assets through offshore trusts and bearer corporations for his unborn daughter.
Me.
But the money wasn’t the real problem.
Rossi Harbor was.
Three waterfront terminals.
Warehouses.
Shipping rights.
Commercial property.
The legitimate center of Dominic’s business empire.
Carlo Rossi had stolen the land through forged transfers after Gabriel disappeared.
The ledger proved it.
Legally, ownership could potentially revert to Gabriel’s estate.
To me.
Dominic sat across from me in his hospital room.
His shoulder was bandaged.
“Take it.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“The harbor.”
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
“That company employs thousands of people.”
“I know.”
“It’s your family’s business.”
“It was your father’s property first.”
“You built it.”
“My father stole it.”
“You didn’t.”
“That doesn’t change ownership.”
I studied him.
“Why are you making this easy?”
He laughed without humor.
“You think this is easy?”
“I think most crime bosses don’t voluntarily hand over billion-dollar property.”
“I’m trying to stop being what my father was.”
That silenced me.
Dominic looked toward the window.
“When Matteo died, I was young. My father told me Victor killed him. I believed him for years.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“You were a kid.”
“I grew up believing strength meant protecting the family name.”
He looked at me.
“Then I learned the family name was sometimes the thing people needed protection from.”
For the first time, he told me everything.
At nineteen, Dominic discovered records contradicting Carlo’s stories.
At twenty-two, he confronted his father.
Carlo admitted ordering Matteo’s death.
They never reconciled.
When Carlo died, Dominic inherited an empire soaked in history he despised.
He had spent years pushing Rossi businesses toward legitimacy.
Shipping.
Property.
Security.
Restaurants.
But old enemies and old debts remained.
Then three weeks before the Aster Crown gala, Isabella happened to see my name on a staffing list for another event.
Clara Bennett.
Twenty-six.
Mother Ellen Bennett.
Dominic investigated.
And found the connection.
“Why didn’t you tell Isabella?”
“I wanted proof.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when we met?”
“Would you have believed a stranger who walked up during your catering shift and said your entire family history was false?”
“No.”
“Exactly.”
“You still should have tried.”
“Yes.”
That answer surprised me.
No defense.
No excuse.
Just yes.
“And the marriage?”
His mouth tightened.
“I was terrified.”
“Dominic Rossi gets terrified?”
“That night I did.”
He looked directly at me.
“You had seven bullet wounds. Costa knew you survived. I had just found the niece of the brother I failed to avenge, and I thought you were going to die before ever learning who you were.”
“I’m not technically your niece.”
“No.”
The room became strangely quiet.
Something shifted between us.
I looked away first.
We had avoided discussing it.
Whatever existed beneath the anger.
Attraction.
Connection.
Something dangerous that had started before either of us understood the family history.
Dominic spoke softly.
“The ring was protection. Nothing more.”
I looked at him.
“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
His gaze held mine.
“I’m trying to respect you.”
That was worse.
Because I suddenly wanted him not to.
I stood.
“I’m going to Cleveland with Mom.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
He nodded.
No argument.
No demand.
No attempt to keep me.
That somehow hurt more than everything else.
“What happens to Victor?”
“Federal charges. Murder conspiracy. Racketeering. Kidnapping. Enough to keep him away permanently.”
“And Luca?”
“Cooperating.”
“So it’s over.”
Dominic looked at me.
“I hope so.”
I wanted him to ask me to stay.
He didn’t.
The next morning, Isabella hugged me at the hospital entrance.
“You changed him.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“I wasn’t talking about his shoulder.”
She smiled sadly.
Then she handed me a small box.
Inside was the Rossi ring.
“I gave that back.”
“He gave it to me.”
“Why?”
“He said it should belong to the person who earned the right to decide what it means.”
I closed the box.
“Isabella…”
“Keep it. Throw it into the river. Sell it. Wear it.”
She kissed my cheek.
“But this time, let the choice be yours.”
I went to Cleveland.
For three months, Dominic and I did not see each other.
My mother recovered.
Slowly.
So did I.
Physical therapy was brutal.
Some days I could barely lift my left arm.
Some nights I woke hearing gunshots.
But ordinary life returned in pieces.
Coffee.
Laundry.
Grocery stores.
Sunlight through cheap apartment blinds.
I paid my mother’s medical bills using a tiny fraction of Gabriel’s money.
I bought no mansion.
No sports car.
No diamonds.
I bought myself something far more luxurious.
Time.
Then I made a decision about Rossi Harbor.
I created a trust.
Fifty-one percent ownership would remain under my name.
But profits would fund medical care, employee pensions, and a foundation for families affected by organized crime.
Dominic would continue operating the business.
When the lawyers told him, he called me.
Our first conversation in months.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I know.”
“You could sell.”
“I know.”
“You could remove me.”
“I know.”
Pause.
“Why aren’t you?”
“Because your father built power by taking things from people.”
I looked out my apartment window.
“I’d rather build something by giving people choices.”
Silence.
Then Dominic said, “Matteo would have liked you.”
My throat tightened.
“So would Gabriel.”
Another pause.
“I miss you.”
There it was.
No performance.
No game.
Three words.
I closed my eyes.
“I know.”
“That’s all?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
I looked at the little box on my kitchen counter.
The Rossi ring was still inside.
“I miss you too.”
He exhaled.
Then someone knocked on my door.
I frowned.
“Hold on.”
I opened it.
Nobody.
Only an envelope on the floor.
My blood froze.
Old fear returned instantly.
I picked it up carefully.
Inside was a photograph.
Dominic.
Leaving the hospital weeks earlier.
A red circle drawn around his head.
On the back:
Victor was never the last one.
I called Dominic’s name into the phone.
His voice changed immediately.
“What happened?”
I told him.
He was silent for two seconds.
Then:
“Lock the door.”
“Dominic—”
“Clara, lock it.”
I did.
“Enzo is calling Cleveland security.”
“How does someone know where I live?”
“I don’t know.”
My hands began shaking.
Then another knock came.
Three slow taps.
Dominic’s voice sharpened.
“Do not open that door.”
The handle moved.
Someone had a key.
I backed away.
The door opened.
A man stepped inside.
Older.
Gray-haired.
Scar across his jaw.
I had never seen him before.
He looked at the phone in my hand.
Then said something that turned my entire understanding of the story upside down.
May you like
“Tell Dominic his father isn’t dead.”
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