Chapter 3
Elena's POV
Four Years Later
"Bring him in."
I sat in my private office at Castelli's, rhythmically tapping my fingers on the desk. The woman in the mirror was almost unrecognizable—Prada suit, flawless makeup, cold eyes.
Tommy pushed open the door. A young employee knelt before me, cold sweat beading on his forehead. Carlos, a delivery driver, caught stealing two kilos of product.
"Please, ma'am, I have three children..." he begged, voice trembling.
I picked up the report from my desk, my tone even. "You didn't just steal product, Carlos. You stole my trust. Tommy saw you take two kilos from the basement with his own eyes."
"I swear I'll never—"
I raised my hand, cutting him off. "I can give you one chance... but it costs a pinky finger. Those are the rules."
As Tommy led Carlos away, I sighed and turned toward the window. Sunlight spilled across Brooklyn's streets, illuminating my "empire." Four years ago, when Dante left, this was just an ordinary Italian restaurant with a small drug distribution operation. Now, Castelli's boasted a Michelin star, with the mayor among our regulars. The underground business had expanded tenfold—drugs, money laundering, weapons, gambling—we did it all.
My phone vibrated with a call from Sofia's school.
"Mama!" The ten-year-old's voice bubbled with excitement. "Can I go to Jessica's after school today? Her dad got new horses!"
I smiled. "Of course, baby. I'll have Tommy pick you up."
"Thanks! Hey, is Uncle Dante sending a letter this month? He promised photos of Vegas last time!"
At that name, my heartbeat quickened slightly. "He should. You know he never disappoints you."
After hanging up, my thoughts drifted. Sofia attended New York's most prestigious private school, completely isolated from the mob world I'd created for her. She only knew her "Uncle Dante" ran casinos in Vegas—not that they called him the "Vegas Butcher" for his brutal methods of executing traitors.
Six o'clock, rush hour. I stood in the kitchen center, directing two operations simultaneously—Giovanni's new dish and an upcoming drug deal.
"The sauce is too thick. Add some white wine," I told Giovanni, then turned to Tommy waiting nearby and lowered my voice. "Tell the dock guys the price is up ten percent. The FBI's been too active lately. Increased risk."
"They'll complain, Boss," Tommy frowned.
"Let them find someone else then," I smirked. "In all of Brooklyn, only we can deliver this purity and quantity."
"A perfect sauce, like a perfect deal, requires precise ingredients," I said to both Giovanni and Tommy. "The slightest error can be fatal."
Just as I prepared to leave the kitchen, a waiter rushed in. "Ma'am, Agent Donovan's back, requested the VIP room."
Damn. This was his third "visit" to my restaurant this month. FBI Agent Donovan pretended to be a regular customer, but was obviously monitoring us.
"Prepare his favorite lamb chops," I adjusted my hair. "I'll handle him personally."
Donovan sat in the corner booth, mid-forties, wearing an expensive but poorly tailored suit. He looked up with a smile. "Mrs. Castelli, what's the special today?"
"Lamb chops with rosemary potatoes," I responded gracefully, instructing the waiter to pour wine. "Your favorite."
"Such a good memory," he grinned, showing overly white teeth. "Just like how you remember Dante's monthly letters."
My hand stiffened slightly before I recovered. This bastard knew about our correspondence.
As his meal arrived, he casually remarked, "Your lamb is seared perfectly, just like your communication with Vegas... fascinating."
"I'm just a restaurant manager, Agent," I smiled. "Perhaps you should cut back on detective novels."
He laughed softly, his voice threaded with menace. "We both know you're more than a 'restaurant manager.' They call you the 'Shadow Queen' in Brooklyn's Italian community. The Castelli family business has flourished under your hand, especially... the underground portion."
When settling the bill, he deliberately whispered in my ear. "No secret stays hidden forever, ma'am, especially those written on paper. You should know that under the RICO Act, conspiracy carries the same sentence as the actual crime."
The moment he left, I called our FBI informant. Information quickly returned. The FBI was building a RICO case against the Castelli family, focusing especially on Dante's activities in Vegas and our correspondence.
DAMN! They had gathered so much intelligence.
Late that night, I sat in my bedroom, removing a stack of letters from my safe—Dante had sent one monthly for four years. The most recent arrived just three days ago.
"Vegas's lights remind me of Brooklyn's flavor... especially your tomato sauce... and the color of your eyes."
My fingers traced his forceful handwriting, my heart fluttering. The letters mostly contained cold business guidance and family matters, but always included a few veiled personal words, sparking across the paper.
In Vegas, he'd built an extensive casino network with nearly two hundred men under him, controlling half the city's underground economy. The young man who once taught me to shoot in our basement had become a mob boss whose name made enemies tremble.
"What kind of man have you become there?" I whispered, picking up my pen to reply. My fingers hesitated, writing then crossing out: "I dream of your return every night..." In the end, I only wrote about business reports and Sofia's recent activities.
Just as I sealed the envelope, my phone rang. The screen displayed "Marco Rossi."
"Elena, dinner tomorrow?" His voice was elegant and charming. "I've booked Per Se."
Marco Rossi, a high-level advisor to the Rossi family, had been appearing frequently in my life lately.
"I'm sorry, Marco. I have meetings tomorrow," I declined.
"The day after then? I have opera tickets. Carmen—your favorite."
I sighed. "Fine. See you then."
Hanging up, I felt a wave of exhaustion. Marco was indeed captivating—handsome, cultured, generous. More importantly, he represented a possibility—the possibility of a normal life. No guns, drugs, or death threats, just opera, art exhibitions, and fine dining.
But I wasn't foolish. I knew the long-standing blood feud between the Rossi and Castelli families meant Marco's sudden interest was no coincidence. Especially with Don Antonio's declining health and Dante far away in Vegas.
A week later, Marco waited for me in the restaurant's bar area. When I saw him pull a velvet box from his pocket, I knew trouble was coming.
"Elena," he gently opened the box revealing a dazzling diamond necklace. "I saw this in Paris and immediately thought of you."
"I can't accept such an expensive gift, Marco," I demurred.
"A woman of your elegance shouldn't be buried in this life," he displayed the necklace, diamonds sparkling under the lights. "I can offer you more than jewelry—a new life away from bloodshed. You deserve better, Elena."
His words unlocked a deep longing within me—a yearning for normality. But I shook my head. "Marco, I appreciate it, but I have responsibilities."
"At least consider it," he gently held my hand. "A union between the Rossi and Castelli families could end decades of hostility. Think of Sofia—she shouldn't grow up amidst gunfire and bloodshed."
His words stung because they targeted my greatest fear—Sofia eventually being drawn into this world.
That evening, I attended the family elders' meeting. With Don Antonio's health deteriorating, the family began discussing future leadership.
Afterward, old Giuseppe pulled me aside. "Be careful with boundaries in your relationship with Dante, Elena. The mafia has traditions... when in-laws cross lines, there's only one outcome—death. People are watching your correspondence closely."
My heart sank. "I don't understand what you mean, Giuseppe."
"Don't play dumb, child," his ancient eyes sharp as an eagle's. "I've been in this family seventy years, and those looks don't fool me. Dante killed over a dozen men in Vegas, not because they threatened business, but because they threatened you. Some in the family resent your power. They're looking for leverage."