Page 510 of Rosetti Family New York

The note crumples in my fist as Van's clinical words destroy everything I thought we'd built together. My hands shake with a fury I've never felt before. Not the quick flash of teenage rebellion, but something deeper. Something that makes my pulse race and my vision sharpen instead of blur.

Clinical. Professional. Like I'm a medical chart instead of the woman who knows exactly what sounds he makes when he comes.

I stand in my childhood bedroom in the Rosetti mansion, surrounded by the familiar luxury that once meant safety. Now every detail feels like another bar in an elaborate cage. The floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook manicured grounds, the marble floors that echo with decades of family power, the abstract art worth millions that says nothing about the people who live here.

The private jet that brought me back from Chicago sits on the tarmac somewhere, its leather seats still warm from my body. No commercial flight, no paper trail—just the Rosetti machine extracting their sister from danger. I'm basically an expensive painting being shipped back to storage.

The freedom I tasted in those brief moments of independence in Chicago has been stolen from me before I could fully grasp it. Making coffee in Van's sterile Lincoln Park apartment, walking to work at the gallery without guards shadowing my steps, choosing my own clothes without considering which designer name would reflect best on the family.

I was happier there. That realization stings worse than his abandonment.

The security measures that once made me feel protected now suffocate. Every guard stationed in the hallways, every camera monitoring the grounds, every protocol designed to keep threats out also keeps me in. I pace across marble that's witnessed three generations of Rosetti women learning their place—beautiful, protected, controlled.

But this time it cuts deeper because Van knows exactly who I am. He's always known about the operations, the territories, the violence that funds our protected world. He told me so himself in that concrete room where he kept his darkest needs. Yet he still treats me like I'm too fragile for the reality we both acknowledge.

He made this decision FOR me, not WITH me. Used his thirty-five years of experience to override my twenty-three-year-old choices, just like every other man who thinks age equals authority over my life. Sent me back to this gilded prison where my brothers can keep me safe and useless.

The Manhattan skyline glitters beyond my windows, a view that costs more than most people make in a lifetime. But all I canthink about is his apartment with its hidden room, his hands that heal and hurt with equal precision, the way he looked at me like I was both precious and dangerous.

Now I'm back where I started. Carmela Rosetti, youngest child, only daughter, family treasure to be guarded and displayed but never trusted with anything real.

Except I'm not the same girl who left three months ago. That girl wouldn't have recognized the rage burning in my chest, wouldn't have understood how fury could feel like power instead of weakness.

Van taught me that. Among other things.

Dom arrives within the hour, his face carrying that particular Rosetti strength that makes grown men confess secrets. He settles behind the massive oak desk that's seen three generations of family business, but his usual calculated control shows cracks.

"Van Reyes made a unilateral decision about family business without consultation," he says, his voice quieter than usual, which means he's furious. "After everything we've invested in him, after clearing his debt by protecting you, he thinks he can decide what's best for my sister?"

The reminder hangs heavy between us. Van's debt was supposed to be settled, his slate clean. But instead of embracing that freedom to choose us, he's chosen to walk away. Exactly what he said he was prepared to do to prove his love was real. Except he left without me.

"No one dismisses a Rosetti woman without family approval," Dom continues, ice in his tone. "Not even someone I pulled out of an Afghan torture compound. His presumption crossed every line of hierarchy and tradition."

I sink into the leather chair across from him, processing this new perspective. Van's decision wasn't just about protecting me. It was a rejection of our entire family's authority after we'd given him freedom to choose.

"He thinks he's protecting me FROM our family," I say slowly, understanding dawning. "Instead of WITH our family."

Dom's smile is sharp. "Exactly. And that's a problem we need to address."

Eleanor arrives as the afternoon light streams through the tall windows, moving with careful grace of someone who married into violence. She carries a tea service, her diamond wedding ring catching the light like a weapon.

"Dom called me because he thought you'd need to talk to someone who understands," she says, settling beside me on the couch. "When I married Leo, everyone said I was too soft for this world. That the violence would break me."

Her voice carries quiet strength earned through hard experience. "But they didn't understand. I didn't marry the violence. I married the man. And sometimes protecting the man means accepting the danger."

I lean forward, hungry for this wisdom. "Van thinks he's saving me by sending me away."

"Men like ours believe they own what they claim to protect," Eleanor says gently. "But love isn't about avoiding danger, Carmela. It's about facing it together. Van is trying to make you choose between him and your family, between safety and love. That's not protection. That's control disguised as sacrifice."

The words sting with revelation. I've been letting him make that choice for me, accepting his thirty-five-year-old "wisdom" as superior to my own instincts. But we'd moved past this. We'd committed to each other, worked through his fears about contaminating me with his darkness.

"I don't want to choose," I whisper. "I want both. I want him AND my family."

Eleanor's smile is warm with understanding. "Then that's what you fight for."

Leo storms in still wincing slightly from his healing ribs, wild red hair barely contained, hazel eyes blazing. His voice carries that particular volume that makes enemies confess before interrogation begins.

"Who the hell does this surgeon think he is? Making decisions about OUR sister?" He paces like a caged animal, Eleanor's touch on his arm the only thing keeping him grounded. "Couple of months and he thinks he knows what's best for a Rosetti?"