The Moretti estate hummed with the nervous tension of a loaded gun. Security patrols doubled. Inner-circle meetings moved to soundproofed rooms. Ronnie had become a phantom inside her own home—quiet, focused, unpredictable.
The call with Dominic haunted her. He wasn't hiding anymore. He was goading her. Testing how far she'd go. And she was ready to show him.
The plan to bait him with a meeting had worked—too well. Half the city now watched Ronnie with renewed interest. The Giordano family hadn't actually been contacted. But that didn't matter. Appearances were currency.
And in the underworld, Ronnie Moretti was suddenly very, very rich.
---
"Giordano's boys think you're serious," Luca reported from behind a stack of schematics. "They've started sniffing around, probably thinking there's something to gain."
"Let them," Ronnie said, sipping black coffee. "Dominic's going to think they're my backup. He won't be able to resist making a move."
Tommy leaned forward. "So what's our counter?"
Ronnie turned a photo on the desk—an overhead shot of an abandoned theater in Brooklyn. "We rent the Valentino. Invite the Giordanos to a 'sit-down.' Make it loud. Dominic will send someone. Maybe show up himself."
Sparks smirked. "Old-school mafia drama. I like it."
Ronnie stood. "Dress to kill."
---
Flashback: 10 Years Ago
A teenage Ronnie stood backstage at the Valentino Theater, pacing in her debut dress. Her father's voice echoed from the audience: "Don't let them see you sweat, princess. Power is an act. Make them believe you're fire—even if you feel like smoke."
Dominic, younger and full of reckless charm, handed her a flower. "You'll be fine. Just remember—everyone's faking it. The trick is not getting caught."
She had smiled then. Trusted him.
A memory, now curdled with betrayal.
---
The Meeting
Ronnie arrived at the theater in a deep navy suit, hair slicked into a braid. Tommy and Luca flanked her. Inside, the Valentino had been dressed for drama—heavy curtains, roped-off balconies, and private guards at every door.
The Giordano reps came late. Two capos and Angelo himself, aging and still dangerous in his own right.
"You brought muscle," he said, eyeing her entourage.
"I brought protection," she replied. "You did the same."
They sat, the old red seats creaking beneath them. The stage lights buzzed overhead.
"I'm not looking for alliances," Ronnie said bluntly. "I'm looking for leverage. You've got ears in Jersey. I've got loyalty in Brooklyn. Dominic Rossi is a threat to us both."
Angelo laughed. "Dominic's a myth."
Ronnie slid a photo across the table. Dominic, alive, standing beside a known Sicilian trafficker. Date-stamped two weeks ago.
"Still think he's fiction?"
Angelo sobered. "What's your angle?"
"Expose him. Cut his funding. Burn his alliances. And then bury him."
"I'm listening."
---
What none of them noticed was the security guard in the upper box, recording the entire conversation with a tiny lens in his glasses.
What they didn't know was that Dominic had been listening all along.
---
That night, back at the estate, Ronnie found a package on her bed.
Inside—her debut dress from that night at the Valentino. Burned. Torn. And with it, a note: I remember, too.
She sat down slowly, rage thrumming beneath her skin.
"He was in the building," she whispered.
Luca swore. "You think he got close enough to—"
"Doesn't matter. We keep moving."
But inside, she felt it—that tiny crack in her armor. The reminder that Dominic knew her better than anyone else ever had. And worse—he knew how to hurt her without drawing blood.
---
The next few days blurred in a rush of action. Ronnie leaked information to draw out Dominic's smugglers. Two were arrested. One flipped and gave up a warehouse full of forged passports and stolen tech. The news ran quietly in back pages, but the message was clear:
Ronnie Moretti was tearing through the shadows.
She received another call.
Dominic's voice, this time colder.
"You're making a mess."
"You always hated how clean I kept things."
"You think this makes you strong?"
"I think I'm still standing. You should worry about how long that'll last on your end."
A pause.
"I loved you, once," he said.
She almost dropped the phone.
"Then you should've died," she replied.
And ended the call.
---
That night, she stood alone in her father's study.
There were two portraits on the wall. Her father's. And now, hers.
She stared at them. The same jawline. The same eyes. But in her gaze was something he never had.
Unforgiving fire.
"Dominic wants me broken," she whispered. "But I'm building an army."
And behind her, in the reflection of the window, Tommy stood.
Not speaking. Just watching.
Loyal.
For now.