But I’ve never been much of a fan of nepotism. I believe in getting what you work your ass off for, not what’s handed to you because of a deathbed promise.
“Gentlemen,” I say, addressing the group. I don't sit. I stand at the head of the table. Lochlan is a step behind my right shoulder, and Vincenzo is seated to my left. “Thank you for coming on short notice.”
“Did we have a choice?” Riccardo snarls. My lips threaten to twist at the same line he used last time. Unoriginal prick.
“You always have a choice, which you demonstrated when you called a meeting without me.” I lift an eyebrow at him then sweep my gaze over the other capos. “Care to explain?”
Riccardo's smug expression flickers. He clearly didn’t expect me to come out swinging. And I’ve barely started.
“It wasn't a formal meeting,” he finally says. “Just lunch.”
“And a conversation about my leadership behind my back. With three of my father's most trusted captains.” I tilt my head. “That sounds pretty formal to me.”
Carlo Bianchi clears his throat. He's the oldest one here, been in the game since before I was born. “Adriana, we weren't trying to undermine?—”
“Yes, you were,” I cut him off, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. I can’t let them see me as an emotional wreck because that’ll undermine my abilities even more. “Let's not pretend it was just a casual meal because we all know the truth. Riccardo called you together to discuss whether I'm fit to lead and whether you should throw your support behind someone else.” My eyes land back on Riccardo. “Someone like him. So let’s talk about him, shall we?”
Silence falls over the group, and it’s deafening.
“Here's what I want to know.” I plant my hands on the table and lean forward. “When the Russians hit Moretti's two nights ago, where were you, Riccardo?”
A deep red flush colors his face. “That's not a fair question.”
“Humor me. Tell me where you were.”
“I was at home. I didn't know about it until?—”
“Until the next morning after it was over. After Moretti’s was destroyed, three armed Russians were lying on the floor.” I straighten up and look at each of the men seated around the table. “But do you know who was there? I was, and so was my husband. We handled it.”
“You ran away,” Riccardo bites out. “That's what I heard. The Russians showed up and you ran like a scared little?—”
“I put one of them in the hospital.” My voice cuts into his words like the sharpest dagger. “I cracked a wine bottle over his skull while he had a gun pointed at my husband's head. Then we got the Moretti family out safely before more of them could show up.” I pause. “That's not running. That's surviving. That's protecting the people under our care.”
Riccardo's mouth opens. I lance him with a glare and his lips snap closed. For once, he doesn't have a comeback. Halle-fucking-lujah.
I turn to the rest of them. “I know some of you have doubts. I know I'm not what you expected. A woman. A businesswoman. Someone who walked away from this life and only came back because she had no choice.” I straighten up. “But I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere, so like it or not, you’re looking at the new head of the DiMicheli family.”
Carlo leans forward, his lined forehead pinched. “What about the Russians? They're getting bolder. Moretti's was a message that they won’t stop until they get what they want from us. Power, territories, control, cash. They want to dismember our organization and fold it into theirs.”
“I know. You’re right to be concerned. They pose very realthreats that can hurt us if we don’t respond in the right ways. But know that we're handling it. Wolfe Molloy is tracking their movements and communications. Vincenzo has feelers out. We know they're pushing and testing our borders. They think we're weak because my father is in a coma.” I look around the table. “They're wrong.”
“And if they hit us again?” Tommy Greco asks.
“Then we will hit back. Harder.” I hold his gaze. “But we will be smart about it. We will support each other and beat them together. And we don't let anyone… Russian, Irish, or Italian… divide us from the inside.”
That last part is pointed. Everyone knows I'm talking about Riccardo.
He knows it, too. His flushed face has not drained of all color, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping in his cheek.
“You can't just—" he starts to say.
“Oh, but I can.” I cut him off, a tight smile lifting my lips. “And I am. This is my father's organization. While he's recovering, I'm in charge. That's not up for debate. That's not something you get to vote on behind closed doors.” I round the table and take a step toward him. “If you have concerns about my leadership, you bring them to me directly. Not to a secret meeting where you think you can form a coup against me. Understand?”
“What if I don’t?” he snarls.
My fists tingle, and the temptation to punch a hole in his throat is damn strong.
“Then you and I will have a very different conversation. One you won't enjoy.” I lean toward him. “I promise you that. My father may have kept you around for some reason, but I’m not him.”
