Page 49

What I don’t say is how much I studied her. Not just her kills, but her strategy. How she built alliances, managed territories, positioned the Russo family for generations. A soldier follows orders, but a Don creates a legacy. I’ve been collecting these lessons for years, watching the old families, learning their strengths and weaknesses. Isabella was one of the best.
“You think Paolo had anything to do with your family’s success? That asshole couldn’t throw a punch if his life depended on it. But your mother? Single-handedly earned the Russo clan’s respect. Followed rules, ruthless, always ten steps ahead. You’re her only legacy. If anything, they owe you. So why run?”
I know I’ve hit something raw when tears glisten in her eyes, quickly blinked away. Her lip trembles, and her next words send ice through my veins.
“Did the Commission kill my mom?”
I stop mid-cut, staring at her. There’s a hardness in her expression, jaw clenched tight against a flood of emotions. Her eyes are focused but icy, walls built to hold back an ocean of pain. Hatred radiates from her—so potent I feel it might scorch my skin.
The Commission practically worshiped Isabella. She’s a saint to them—speaking ill of her is sacrilege. Her only mistake was marrying Marco, and even then, they overlooked it.
La Falciante was the Commission personified. Every criminal network in New York feared the Italians because of her. Anexecutioner without equal, loyal to the core. Her death shocked everyone.
To those who didn’t know her personally, she was death’s shadow. Her name alone was law, enough to paralyze enemies.
“The Commission had nothing to gain from killing her.” I pass her the plate of cut steak. “Why think that?”
“People don’t just die like that. A gunshot? Sure. Lung cancer from smoking? Absolutely. Even murder in their sleep happens. But a car crash? Too—”
“Mundane.”
“For someone as high up as she was, it doesn’t add up.” She stabs a piece of meat. “Not a freak accident. Too convenient. I know in my gut the Commission did it.”
“How would you know? You were what, ten?”
“Twelve. And I know because I was in the backseat when it happened.”
The words hang between us, heavy as lead. The fork in my hand suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.
She was in the car.
A child, watching her mother die. No wonder she hates everything about our world.
“You survived.”
“Obviously.” Bitter as wormwood. “Sometimes I wonder if that was their plan too.”
“Meaning?”
“Why kill just the mother when you can traumatize the child? Make her fear the world she was born into. Ensure she never wants anything to do with it.”
“That’s not how the Commission operates. They don’t target children.”
She laughs, sharp and humorless. “Don’t they? Then what am I doing here? Being used as bait for my father? Tell me again how the Commission doesn’t target children.”
I have no answer. She’s right, and we both know it.
“My father tried to protect me. After she died, he did everything to keep me away from this. I think he knew it wasn’t an accident.”
“Is that why he’s going after them now? Revenge?”
Her eyes meet mine, steady and clear. “Wouldn’t you?”
The question hits deeper than expected. Would I burn the world if someone took my mother? In a heartbeat. Would I wait years, building evidence methodically? Not sure I have that patience or foresight.
“Your theory? Why kill La Falciante? She was their most valuable asset.”
“She could’ve become a liability. Maybe she knew something she shouldn’t. Disagreed with them about something important. Or maybe—“ She looks directly at me. ”—she threatened to take her family and leave.”