Page 63 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

GRACE

S ix months later…

The Manhattan skyline glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of our penthouse, a tapestry of lights against the velvet darkness of evening. I stood watching it, wrapped in a silk robe, a glass of wine in my hand, savoring the moment of quiet before tonight's summit.

So much had changed in half a year. The woman who had once been a captive, then a pawn, then a bargaining chip between powerful men now stood at the center of her own power.

The O'Sullivan empire, restructured under Connor's initial leadership, had gradually shifted to joint control between us—the sister who had been discarded and the brother who had chosen her over blood ties and tradition.

The Conti organization, still technically headed by Dante, now operated with Rafe and me as equal partners in all major decisions.

What had begun as an uneasy alliance between former enemies had evolved into something more stable, more sustainable—a new power structure that balanced the strengths of both families while eliminating the weaknesses that had made them vulnerable to each other.

And at the center of it all: us. Rafe and I. No longer captor and captive. No longer predator and prey. But partners in every sense—business, strategy, life, love.

"You should be getting ready." Rafe's voice came from behind me, warm and familiar. I didn't turn, but smiled as his reflection appeared in the window, coming to stand behind me. "The dons will be arriving in an hour."

"Let them wait," I replied, leaning back against him as his arms encircled my waist. "A queen is never late. Everyone else is simply early."

He laughed, the sound still rare enough to be precious. "A philosophy your father would have appreciated, even as he hated everything else you've become."

The mention of my father no longer stung as it once had. Patrick O'Sullivan had been dead for six months, his legacy dismantled and rebuilt into something he wouldn't recognize—something stronger, more adaptable, more forward-thinking than the empire of fear and control he had constructed.

"He never saw me," I said, watching our reflection in the darkened glass. "Not really. Not as I was or could be. Only as what he wanted me to be."

"His mistake," Rafe murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple. "My gain."

I turned in his arms, studying the face that had once terrified me, then captivated me, and now belonged to the man I had chosen freely, with open eyes and full understanding of all he was—the darkness and the light, the control and the vulnerability, the monster and the man.

"Do you ever regret it?" I asked, a question I rarely voiced but sometimes wondered. "Taking me that night? Starting all of this?"

His expression turned thoughtful, his hands warm against my silk-covered back. "I regret the pain I caused you," he said finally. "The fear. The loss of choice. But the outcome?" His eyes held mine, dark and certain. "Never. I would tear the world apart again to end up here, with you, like this."

The raw honesty in his voice, in his eyes, still had the power to take my breath away. This was the Rafe that only I saw—the man beneath the calculated exterior, the vulnerability beneath the control, the capacity for love that had surprised us both with its depth and transformative power.

"We should get ready," I said, reluctantly stepping out of his embrace. "Make them wait too long, and they might start to question our strength. Our resolve."

"Let them question," Rafe replied, his eyes darkening with the predatory intensity that still sent shivers down my spine. "Let them doubt. It will make the lesson all the more effective when they see you tonight."

I smiled, a expression that held nothing of the uncertain girl I'd once been and everything of the woman I'd become. "Then let's make sure the lesson is unforgettable."

The black silk dress felt like armor against my skin—sleek, dangerous, a second skin that moved with me as I walked. Cut high at the neck but open at the back, it projected both power and sensuality, a combination I had learned to wield with precision in the months since my father's death.

Around my throat, a single strand of black pearls—a gift from Rafe on the day we moved into the penthouse. "Not a collar," he had said as he fastened it. "Never that. A crown."

At my thigh, secured in a custom holster invisible beneath the silk, rested the dagger—three inches of perfectly balanced steel, its handle crafted from my father's signet ring, melted down and reforged into something that served me rather than controlled me. A symbol. A statement. A promise.

Rafe waited by the elevator in a black suit that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the lean strength of his body. His eyes darkened appreciatively as I approached, taking in the dress, the pearls, the subtle makeup that enhanced rather than concealed.

"Perfect," he said simply.

"Dangerous," I corrected with a smile.

"That too." He offered his arm, a gesture of partnership rather than possession. "Shall we?"

The private elevator descended silently to the lower level of the building, where the summit was being held in a secure room that had once been a bank vault.

Symbolism was important in our world—the suggestion of safety, of valuable things kept under lock and key, of power concentrated and protected.

Two guards flanked the entrance—one Conti, one O'Sullivan, a visual representation of the alliance that had reshaped the city's underworld. They nodded respectfully as we approached, opening the heavy doors without a word.

Inside, the room hummed with controlled tension.

Around a massive table of polished black marble sat the heads of every significant family in the Northeast—the Giordanos, the Donovans, the Murphys, the Chens, the Petrovs.

Men who had once dealt exclusively with my father or with Dante Conti, who had never considered a woman as anything but a bargaining chip or a weakness to be exploited.

Men who now stood as we entered, a mark of respect that would have been unthinkable six months ago.

I felt their eyes on me as we moved toward the head of the table—assessing, calculating, some still disbelieving despite everything that had happened since my father's death.

I met their gazes directly, unflinchingly, my posture conveying a confidence that was no longer feigned but bone-deep, earned through fire and blood and choices that had forged me into something new.

My chair waited at the head of the table—not my father's chair, not a Conti chair, but something new, commissioned specifically for this summit.

Carved from dark wood and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, it suggested a throne without being ostentatious, a seat of power that acknowledged tradition while breaking from it.

I took my place, Rafe standing at my right shoulder rather than sitting—a position that made some of the older dons shift uncomfortably. In their world, men sat at the table. Men made decisions. Men held power.

But this was no longer their world alone.

"Gentlemen," I said, my voice carrying easily in the hushed room. "Thank you for coming. We have much to discuss."

For the next two hours, we talked business—territories, agreements, disputes that needed resolution, opportunities that required cooperation.

I spoke with authority on matters that would have been considered beyond a woman's understanding six months ago, my knowledge of both O'Sullivan and Conti operations giving me insights none of the men around the table could match individually.

Rafe contributed when appropriate, his strategic mind complementing mine, our approaches different but aligned toward the same goals. We disagreed occasionally, but always with respect, always with the understanding that our partnership was stronger for the different perspectives we brought to it.

The dons watched this dynamic with varying degrees of acceptance.

Some—the younger ones, the more progressive ones—seemed to adapt easily to the new order.

Others—particularly old Giordano and Murphy—clearly struggled with the concept of a woman at the head of the table, making decisions that affected their interests, commanding respect they had never planned to give.

As the meeting concluded, agreements reached and new understandings established, Dante Conti rose from his place at the table.

Though technically still the head of the Conti family, he had gradually ceded operational control to Rafe and me, focusing instead on the legitimate businesses that had always interested him more than the darker aspects of their empire.

"A toast," he said, raising his glass. "To new alliances. To stronger foundations. To a future built on mutual respect and shared interests."

The dons raised their glasses, murmuring agreement, the traditional words of conclusion for such gatherings.

But then Victor Chen—younger than most at the table, more adaptable, more forward-thinking—stood as well, his glass held high.

"To the queen of the city," he said, his eyes meeting mine directly, without challenge but with clear recognition of the reality we all now inhabited. "And to the king who stands beside her rather than above her."

A moment of silence followed—the old guard processing this departure from tradition, this acknowledgment of what had been evident throughout the meeting but not yet stated so boldly.

Then, one by one, they stood. Raised their glasses. Repeated the toast.

"To the queen of the city."

Even old Giordano, his hand slightly tremulous with age and reluctance, joined in eventually—pragmatic enough to recognize the new reality, to adapt rather than resist and be left behind.

As they drank, I felt Rafe's hand come to rest lightly on my shoulder—not possessive, not controlling, but supportive.

Present. A reminder of how far we had come from that night in my apartment, from the months of captivity, from the complex evolution of power and surrender and choice that had brought us to this moment.

When the dons had departed, when only Rafe and I remained in the room with its lingering scents of expensive cologne and aged whiskey, I finally allowed myself to exhale fully, to release the perfect posture and calculated expressions I had maintained throughout the summit.

"Well," I said, looking up at him with a smile that held both triumph and wonder, "that was interesting."

He laughed, pulling me to my feet and into his arms. "That was historic," he corrected, his eyes warm with pride and something deeper, something that still made my heart race despite the months we had spent together, the intimacy we had built, the trust that had replaced fear and uncertainty. "You were magnificent."

"We were magnificent," I countered, resting my hands against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath expensive fabric. "Partners. Equals. Just as we promised."

His expression softened, his hand coming up to trace the line of my jaw with a gentleness that belied the strength I knew he possessed. "From the moment I saw you," he said quietly, "I knew you would change everything. I just didn't understand how completely. How perfectly."

I thought of the journey that had brought us here—the fear and rage of my abduction, the slow evolution from captivity to something more complex, the revelations about my father's betrayal, the violence that had ended one chapter and begun another.

The choices that had transformed me from victim to victor, from pawn to queen.

"What began as a kidnapping," I said softly, echoing words I had thought but never spoken during those dark days, "ended with a kingdom."

Rafe's arms tightened around me, his expression a mixture of love and fierce pride and something darker, something that reminded me of who he was, who we both were—not just lovers, not just partners, but rulers of a world built on power and control and the constant vigilance required to maintain both.

"And this time," he promised, his voice low and certain, "no one will take your crown."

I smiled, feeling the weight of the dagger against my thigh, the symbol of transformation, of power reclaimed and redirected. "No," I agreed, my voice matching his in certainty, in promise, in the absolute conviction that what we had built together would endure. "No one will dare."

As we left the vault, as we returned to the penthouse high above the city that was now ours in all the ways that mattered, I thought again of that night months ago—of the woman I had been, of the man who had taken me, of the path neither of us could have predicted that had led us here, to this partnership, this power, this love that had transcended its dark beginnings to become something neither of us had known we needed until we found it in each other.

What began as a kidnapping had indeed ended with a kingdom.

And I intended to rule it well.