THE ROSSETTI HEIRESS HAS STOPPED BEGGING

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The wounded don was still weeping when the room began to empty.

Not by force. By calculation. Men who had laughed ten minutes earlier now found reasons to stand, to adjust cuffs, to murmur about other appointments. The blood on the floor had changed the temperature of the air. I studied the gun on the table for a moment, then quietly shifted my gaze . He deserved it. My grandfather’s name still carried weight. The gunshot had reminded them of it.

Justin Ford did not leave.

He remained in his chair at the far side of the table, cigarette burned down to the filter, watching the others file out with the mild interest of a man who had already decided the evening’s real conversation had not started yet. When the last of the dons had gone and only the smell of smoke and metal remained, he finally rose.

My father stepped into the room then.

I had not expected him to enter. He had said he would wait outside. Yet here he was, crossing the threshold with the careful posture of a man entering another predator’s territory. What surprised me more was the way he inclined his head.

Not deep. Not submissive. But unmistakable.

Respect.

“Ford,” my father said.

Justin’s mouth curved slightly. “Antonio. Your daughter is quite... interesting.”

I stared between them. I had heard the name Justin Ford since I was a teenager — in half-whispered conversations between my father and grandfather, in the tight silence that followed certain business losses, in the way men twice his age lowered their voices when they spoke of London and the southern routes. Four years older than me. Thirty-five. Already the man who owned half the Italian skyline in ways that never appeared cleanly on paper. Ruthless in boardrooms. Dirtier in the spaces beneath them. A drug dealer with a CEO’s polish. Born of a pure Italian mother and a British patriarch who had taught him how to smile while taking everything. Trouble in a tailored suit.

I had planned, in the short time since he clapped for me, to keep as much distance as possible.

"Yes,She is. And that is because she's been made to carry what other people would die experiencing".

Then he looked at me again. My throat closed.

The sensation was immediate and unwelcome — like tiny ants climbing the length of my spine, slow and precise, under the black fabric of my suit.

“Walk with me, Isabella,” Justin said. Not a request. Not quite an order. Something in between.

My father did not object. That, more than anything, unsettled me.

We left the blood and the table behind and moved into a smaller adjoining room — darker, quieter, a single lamp throwing gold across old wood and leather. Justin did not sit immediately. He crossed to a sideboard, poured two measures of something amber, and held one out to me.

I did not take it.

He almost smiled.

“You’re going to need allies,” he said. “The kind who don’t require marriage contracts or soft promises. The dons will regroup. Some will come for your shares another way. Others will try to reach you through what you love. You don’t have much left in that category. That makes you dangerous. It also makes you exposed.”

I kept my face still. “And you’re offering to be that ally out of charity?”

“I don’t do charity.” He set my untouched glass down and leaned against the edge of the sideboard, ankles crossed, completely at ease. “I’m offering a deal. I help you take back everything the Knights stole — the routes, the leverage, the public humiliation of the man who treated you like disposable paper. In return, when the Rossetti empire sits fully under your hand, certain… corridors remain open to me. Cleaner than war. More profitable than watching the old men carve you up out of spite.”

I said nothing at first.

The ants continued their slow climb.

He watched me the way he had in the other room — not with pity, not with the greedy assessment the dons had used, but with a focus that felt like it could peel back skin if I let it.

“You’re hesitating,” he observed.

“I’m calculating.”

“Good.” He tilted his head. “Then calculate this. You can spend the next two years fighting for every inch while Arthur and that woman rebuild their story and your son’s name fades into a quiet tragedy no one important remembers. Or you can take my hand, walk into their world with a different kind of power behind you, and make sure the people who hurt you understand exactly how long you have been planning their end.”

My throat tightened.

He had found it. The blind spot. The place I had not yet learned to guard.

Leo.

Not the empire. Not the money. Not even the humiliation. The fact that my son had been reduced to ash while the people responsible still poured wine and made plans. The fear — quiet, constant — that if I moved too slowly, the world would simply move on and forget he had ever existed.

Justin saw it land. He did not look triumphant. He simply waited.

I hated him for that.

For seeing it so cleanly. For using it without raising his voice. For standing there looking like the most dangerous option in the room and somehow also the only one that made sense.

My father remained silent near the door. He did not interfere. The respect he had shown Justin earlier suddenly made a different kind of sense. This was not a man my family took lightly. This was a man they had already measured and found heavier than most.

But wait. How did he knew about Leo? my plan of revenge on Arthur and Toria? As if reading my thought Justin's eyes darkened noticeably. "I knew the exact moment you entered the city and the exact moment your life fell apart in America. I have eyes everywhere, Isabella. Don't think I know your blind spot my luck". I nearly choked on air. He had eyes everywhere? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Still I didn't ask. I just kept my face neutral and met Justin’s eyes

I did not smile.

“All right,” I said.

The word came out quiet and final.

Something shifted in his expression — not surprise, not victory, but a low, controlled interest that made the ants climb higher.

“All right,” he repeated, as if testing the shape of my agreement. “Then we begin.”

I should have looked away first.

I did not.

And in the low gold light of that room, with my father as witness and the smell of gunpowder still faintly clinging to my skin, I understood that distance was already a lie I was telling myself.

Justin Ford was trouble.

I had just invited him in.