“You’re allying with them?” she snaps, anger overtaking fear. “How disappointing. My father trusted you to handle this discreetly.”
Ruscetta studies her for a long moment, almost dispassionately, then looks back at me.
“So,” he says mildly. “This is the complication.”
I shrug. “Or,” I reply, “it’s the leverage you could capitalise on since your former partner miscalculated.”
We drive for ten minutes, then arrive at a near-impregnable villa overlooking the sea, its walls thick with centuries of decisions that ended badly for men who believed themselves irreplaceable.
Isabella walks between two of my men, her head high, her spine rigid, but the illusion is cracking now, fractures spreading with every step.
Wine is poured. Seats are taken. The atmosphere is civil, controlled, lethal in its politeness.
“I understand,” Ruscetta says eventually, folding his hands on the table, “that Bellandi believed marrying his daughter into my family would secure him protection.”
“He believed many things,” I reply. “Most of them incorrect. Unless you wish to enlighten me otherwise. Are his assumptions correct?”
“Perhaps. But not… immutable.”
Isabella’s fingers curl into her skirt.
“You cannot decide my future like this,” she says, turning towards Lucia with sudden venom. “I demand to know where my father is. Why you’ve brought me here. We weren’t supposed to?—”
A sharp look from Ruscetta silences her.
Lucia turns then, finally granting her attention, and her voice is quiet enough that Isabella has to lean forward to hear it.
“Know when to give up, girl,” she says evenly, then a smile plays at her lips. “Before someone decides to absent you permanently.”
She pales, then her lips clamp together at the taunting reminder of the words she spoke to Lucia three weeks ago.
Silence follows.
Ruscetta exhales slowly, considering, and then nods once.
“You see,” he says to Isabella, “this is why your father is desperate to have you offloaded. You’re no longer an asset. You are a liability.”
Her breath stutters.
“What is it you want?” she demands, looking between us. “Money? Territory? Control?”
“Yes,” I say calmly. “In that order. But don’t fool yourself into believing you aid a great deal in my acquisition of it. You’re but a small cog. A replaceable cog.”
She’s sputtering when I turn back to Ruscetta. I lay it out then, cleanly and without adornment.
“You can proceed with the marriage if you wish, but Bellandi will be cut out entirely. His name will carry no weight, his influence will end where my patience does, and in exchange for alignment with Dragoni interests, your operations will expand under my protection rather than against it. Chicago will remain mine. New York will remain mine. Sicily will prosper because I allow it to, and you will prosper along with it. And her,” I indicate Isabella, “you will keep in Sicily. Permanently.”
Ruscetta listens without interruption, his gaze never leaving mine, and when I finish he smiles, slow and appreciative.
“Salvatore Bellandi,” he says thoughtfully, “has made a habit of backing the wrong horse.” He extends his hand. “I accept.”
Isabella makes a sound then, sharp and furious and utterly helpless. “You cannot,” she says. “You cannot just trade me like this.”
Lucia stands, smooth and unhurried, and moves closer until they’re face to face.
“You were traded long before today,” she says quietly. “The only difference is that now you know it.”
We leave her there, seated between men who no longer see her as power, only as consequence.
