THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE FORCED THE PREGNANT MAID TO SLEEP IN THE COAL CELLAR—UNTIL MATTEO ROSSI DISCOVERED HIS CATATONIC GRANDFATHER CLUTCHING HER ULTRASOUND PRINT. / Chapter 6 / 15

Chapter 6 - An Emperor Reclaims His ThroneAt 7:30 AM, the morning sun rose over the snow-covered bluffs of Lake Michigan in a blaze of pale sapphire and brilliant gold.

The grand banquet hall of the Rossi compound had been transformed into an imperial court.

Forty-five of the most powerful syndicate bosses, shipping directors, and municipal judges in the Midwest sat along an expansive u-shaped mahogany table beneath towering Swarovski crystal chandeliers.

Every man in that room was armed. Every man commanded hundreds of soldiers and hundreds of millions in contraband.

Yet not a single fork moved. Not a single glass clinked.

At the center of the raised marble dais, where the sovereign’s throne stood, sat Don Francesco Rossi.

The ancient patriarch was dressed in a bespoke midnight-navy three-piece suit, his silver hair brushed back, sitting tall and proud in his restored leather armchair with a gold-topped hickory cane resting firmly between his knees.

Beside his throne sat a second high-backed chair draped in soft velvet.

When the heavy double doors opened, Matteo walked into the hall.

He wore an immaculate black three-piece suit, his presence radiating such terrifying, undisputed authority that three capos near the entrance immediately stood from their chairs in deference.

And walking beside him, her arm resting securely inside his elbow, was me.

I wore an exquisite, empire-waist maternity gown of dark emerald velvet that draped gracefully over my seven-month bump, tailored overnight by the estate’s private seamstress. Around my throat rested an antique platinum necklace set with five flawless Colombian emeralds—an heirloom that had belonged to Matteo’s late mother, Donna Isabella.

My hair had been washed and pinned with pearl combs, my skin warmed by twenty-four hours of rest, but beneath the velvet, my chin remained high with the stubborn, unbreakable courage of a girl who had survived the coal cellar.

When Matteo guided me onto the dais, the forty-five mobsters gasped in collective, stunned disbelief.

Francesco lifted his hand, pointing his gold-topped cane directly at the empty velvet chair beside his throne.

“Sit beside me, daughter,” the old Don commanded, his voice booming across the vaulted hall with the terrifying resonance of an emperor reclaiming his kingdom.

I took my seat gracefully, smoothing the emerald velvet over my lap, feeling Matteo step behind my chair, his large hand resting protectively on my shoulder.