At the funeral, I slipped off my wedding ring—that diamond band engraved with "Eternity."

Dante Rossi was dead. My husband, the head of the Rossi Family in Chicago, gunned down in an ambush at the docks.

Everyone wept and mourned—everyone except me, Isabella Rossi, who removed her ring at her husband's funeral.

Vincent's eyes gleamed; he knew exactly what this meant—the throne was empty.

The ring spun once on my fingertip, catching the light.

Five years ago, when Dante slid it onto my finger, he whispered "Eternity." Well, eternity had lasted exactly five years.

I slipped the ring into my mourning dress pocket, the cold metal pressing against my heart through the black fabric.

The church overflowed with black suits and false grief; every crime family in Chicago had shown up.

Their eyes fixed on the coffin, but their minds calculated the territory now up for grabs.

I slid my hand into my pocket; the ring felt like ice against my skin.

Vincent seized my hand. "Isabella, my deepest condolences. We'll make them pay for what they did to my brother."

His palms burned hot, his eyes barely containing the excitement dancing behind them.

"Thank you." I pulled my hand away, fingers instinctively finding the ring in my pocket.

He'd always craved the crown, and now, his moment had finally arrived.

In the shadowy corners of the church, capos huddled together, already debating the succession.

No one spared me a glance. I was merely Dante Rossi's widow—a decorative piece soon to be discarded.

"Madam." A gravelly voice rumbled behind me.

I turned to find Marco—Dante's most trusted lieutenant. His face was weathered like old leather, but his gaze remained granite-hard. Unlike the others, he offered no false sympathy, just stood silently half a step behind me.

That precise distance spoke volumes—protection and loyalty without presumption.

"Marco," I murmured, "thank you."

He gave a slight nod without a word, but his presence made a clear statement: he remained faithful to Dante Rossi's code, and I was protected under that code.

After the funeral, I retreated to the study to review the condolence registry.

I scanned the names methodically, matching each signature to the faces I'd observed at the service.

Luciano Family—present.

Colombo Family—present.

Francesco Family—present.

The ring pressed against my chest through the fabric, a cold reminder to keep my wits sharp.

Wait.

Someone was missing.

Tony.

Dante's personal bodyguard and driver. The news reported he'd died alongside my husband.

Yet his name wasn't on the list, and the family hadn't arranged any ceremony for him.

I immediately summoned Marco.

"Where's Tony?" I demanded, my voice taut with suspicion.

Marco's expression hardened almost imperceptibly. "Ma'am, Tony… he was likely killed instantly…"

"Likely?" I cut him off. "He was Dante's shadow. If Dante died, Tony should be dead too. Why isn't the family honoring him? He served the Rossis for ten years."

Marco fell silent, his eyes finding sudden interest in the floor.

I questioned three other family members.

The first claimed ignorance.

The second suggested Tony had been "blown to bits."

The third patted my hand and told me not to "trouble my pretty head with such sad matters."

Their eyes, like Marco's, shifted away from mine.

Something stank.

That night, sleep eluded me.

I held the ring under the lamp, turning it slowly as the word "Eternity" caught the light.

Five years of marriage, traded for a staged death?

I slipped out of bed and padded to Dante's private study.

The spare key turned silently in the lock.

The desk drawers held the usual—pens, stationery, his favorite Cuban cigars.

But the bottom drawer contained an empty space, with dust outlining a perfect rectangle.

Dante's private ledger was gone, removed in haste.

I stared at that empty space, the ring digging into my palm.

The ledger was gone. Tony had vanished.

Before "dying," Dante had secured his most valuable possessions and taken his most loyal man.

The bastard was still alive.

The Mafia Widow's Rise — Chapter 9

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