Mafia Queen

Gift

I pull out my phone. Three missed calls from my Consigliere back in New York. I ignore them. I pour myself a whiskey and sit by the window overlooking the Chicago skyline. My mind keeps drifting back to those cold grey eyes.

My phone buzzes.

I pick up my phone. It’s my Consigliere, Marco. “Boss? We heard Tristan Cartez was spotted downtown near your hotel. Is he tailing you?” Marco is my right hand in New York.

My guardian. The man who doesn’t only give me the right advice — he negotiates on my behalf, in rooms I never enter, with men I never meet. Forty-five years old. Smart. Quiet. He has spent most of his life serving my father — and now he serves me. He cannot be bought. He cannot be tempted.

He has the complete trust of our family — and he has earned it. Every year. Every deal. Every night he didn’t sleep because the family needed him.

I stare at the amber liquid in my glass, swirling it slowly. He wasn’t tailing me. A warning wrapped in a polite bow.

“I handled it, Marco.” “He approached you directly?” Marco’s voice drops, disbelief mixing with worry. “Boss, Tristan Cartez doesn’t do meet-and-greets unless he’s sending a message. That man plays chess while everyone else plays checkers.”

I drew the rest of the whiskey, the burn settling in my chest. “Focus on New York, Marco. I’m not dead yet.”

Marco exhales sharply. “Copy that, Boss. Just... keep your guard up. Chicago is his board.” The call ends.

I stand at the window. Below, black SUVs cruise the streets. Soldiers — Cartez men, no doubt — watching from corners.

I’ve already become a target in his city. My phone vibrates again. Unknown number.

I hesitate. Then answer. A deep, smooth voice greets me. “Check your door, Romano.”

I freeze. My hand moves toward my weapon instinctively.

My eyes dart to the door. No sound. No footsteps. Just the city hummed outside. “It’s not a threat.” Tristan’s voice was amused. “Just a courtesy.”

I opened the door. The hallway is empty. Completely silent. But resting on the immaculate carpet right outside my suite is a single black velvet box. No note. No card. Just the box.

I pick it up and close the door, locking the deadbolt instantly.

Inside the box lies a single knife. I don’t move for a long moment.

A stiletto. Handmade. Italian steel — the kind that doesn’t come from a shop. The kind that comes from a workshop, from a man who has been making blades for forty years and doesn’t advertise. The handle is black. Weighted. Balanced for a woman’s hand

— my hand. And on the blade, small enough that you’d miss it unless you were looking — a single letter.

D. My name. Or a threat. With him, they’re the same thing.

I set it down on the marble table. Slowly. Like it might cut

me. I should throw it away. I should have my men trace the courier, find out how he got past three layers of security just to leave a box outside my door. I should be furious. Instead, I find myself staring at the cold silver weight of it. Along the way, the steel catches the dim hotel light like a promise — or a warning.

A man like Tristan Cartez doesn’t send gifts without a reason — and the reason is never the gift.

He didn’t send me a knife because I needed protection.

He sent it because he saw the gun in my pocket.

Because he knows my name. My city. My father’s blood.

He sent it because — for reasons I haven’t decided yet — he wants me to know that he’s watching.

And that he can reach me anytime he wants.

I pick it up again. Roll it between my fingers. Then I open my clutch, drop it inside, and close the clasp.

My phone buzzes. Tristan again. “For protection. Whatever you need it for.”

Seconds later, another message.

“Consider it a welcome gift. From one boss to another.” The subtext is clear. He’s watching.

I don’t reply. Tomorrow I have meetings with Chicago families. People who answer to Tristan. People who might sell me out before I even sit down.