23 - Emma
The Russian voices slice through the mechanical clicking of cameras, and my spine goes rigid beneath the Chanel. Two photographers near the boutique window. But Alessandro eliminated the information brokers. These have to be regular paparazzi. They have to be.
I force my shoulders to relax, adjusting my designer sunglasses as I step fully out of the black SUV onto Michigan Avenue. Tony waits behind the wheel, ever patient, while twenty cameras turn toward me like predators scenting blood. I give them exactly what they want: Frances Rosetti, dripping in diamonds and radiating untouchable wealth. The afternoon sun bounces off glass storefronts, creating perfect lighting for the photographers who've been tailing me since the compound gates.
Alessandro has left to deal with the Hewsons directly. If they really are the blackmailers, he will get the truth out of them. They will discover just how foolish it is to blackmail the Rosettis.
"Show them all who Mrs.Rosetti is," Alex said against my mouth this morning, his hands clutching my waist. Now I'm doing exactly that, even as those Russian voices make my skin prickle.
"Mrs.Rosetti! Over here!" The photographers surge forward like a wave, but the bodyguards Alessandro insisted on keep them at a respectful distance. The sound of cameras fills the air like mechanical insects, hungry and insistent. I smile, thesociety smile I've perfected over these weeks, and walk with the confidence of a woman who belongs in Chanel and diamonds.
This is my mission. My contribution to protecting our family. Even if something about those photographers feels wrong.
I push the unease down, focusing on Alessandro's words from this morning: You think like a Rosetti.
The first location is this high-end boutique where I pretend to shop for an hour, letting them capture me examining jewelry, trying on scarves, being the perfect mafia wife spending her husband's money. The saleswomen fawn over me, and I play my part flawlessly. I examine a diamond bracelet with detached interest, noticing absently how my hands no longer shake when handling expensive things. The servant girl's fear of breaking something valuable is finally gone.
But those two photographers stay close to the window, and fragments of their conversation drift through the glass. Something about "the brother" and "confirmation." My blood chills, but I keep my expression neutral, examining pearls like they're the only thing that matters in my world.
They're probably discussing some other story. Some other family's drama. The information brokers are dead. Alessandro made sure of that. I touched his split knuckles afterward, tasted the violence on his skin. These photographers are nothing. Background noise.
The second location is a café where I meet one of Ana's friends for lunch. We air-kiss, discuss charity galas, and I ensure every photographer gets clear shots of me living my privileged life. My companion chatters about her children while I nod and smile, playing the devoted wife who might soon have news of her own.
The photographers follow, always maintaining distance but never losing sight of me. Professional. Patient. Like hunters who know their prey's patterns.
My phone buzzes. Alessandro.
"How's my star performer?" His voice wraps around me like silk, full of pride.
"Three locations down, one to go," I report, stepping away from the photographers for privacy. "They're getting everything they wanted."
"You're magnificent, stellina. Marco himself said you think like a Rosetti." The approval in his voice makes warmth bloom in my chest, temporarily drowning out the anxiety.
The words sink into my bones, reshaping me. I'm not the trembling girl who walked down that aisle anymore. I'm something he helped create: dangerous and valuable.
Everybody in that family is more than they seem. Killers but kind. Violent but loyal. Even Sofia, my own personal Rosetti nemesis, has a caring side. On my way out of the house this morning, I overheard her talking with Maria, speaking rapid Italian. I caught enough to understand she was asking about Maria's sick grandchild, promising to have the family doctor visit. Hard to reconcile that person with the woman who shoots me daggers every time I pass her.
"Just trying to protect what's ours," I say, touching my wedding ring, the weight of it reassuring.
"Come home after the last stop. I want to celebrate your success properly." The promise in his voice makes my insides hot despite the lingering unease.
The third location is an art gallery opening. I float through the crowd, champagne flute in hand, making sure every photographer captures me appreciating culture, mingling with Chicago's elite, being exactly who they expect me to be. The Emma who learned to shoot, who kissed Alessandro's bloody knuckles, performs her role perfectly.
But I can feel those Russian photographers watching, and now they're not even pretending to take pictures. They're just… waiting.
I'm so focused on them that I almost miss the messenger approaching through the crowd.
"Delivery for Mrs.Rosetti," he says, extending a manila envelope.
My bodyguard intercepts it first, checking for anything dangerous, then hands it to me with a nod. It's light, just papers inside. Probably another invitation or charity solicitation. I tuck it under my arm, planning to open it in the car.
But something about the messenger's expression as he leaves makes my stomach drop. Not professional detachment, but something else. Pity, maybe. And behind him, I swear I see the Russian photographers nodding to each other, like a signal has been given.
I excuse myself to the ladies' room, needing privacy. The marble and gold space is empty, just me and whatever's in this envelope. The bathroom tile gleams. Someone spent ages making it sparkle, and I know exactly how their knees must ache. I slide my finger under the seal with trembling hands.
Photographs spill out.
Tommy.
