Chapter 9
The buzzing of the secure phone was relentless, a stark reminder that the violent world Imani ruled would not wait for her to grieve a shattered marriage. She took a deep breath, gently squeezing her mother’s hand before standing up. She walked over to the heavy mahogany desk, her crimson velvet gown rustling softly, and picked up the receiver.
"Speak," Imani commanded, her voice instantly dropping back into the cold, lethal register of the syndicate boss.
"Boss, it’s Marcus," her head of security reported, his voice tight with urgency over the encrypted line. "We have a situation at the front gates."
Imani frowned, her dark eyes narrowing. "I ordered Preston and Constance removed from the property. Did you throw them out?"
"We did, Boss. We literally threw them onto the street," Marcus confirmed. "But that's not the problem. A convoy just pulled up. Five armored SUVs, blacked out. They are blocking the main exit."
"Who is it?" Imani asked, her hand tightening around the phone. The only people who drove in armored convoys were rival syndicate heads or the Commission themselves.
"It's the Rossi family from New York," Marcus said grimly. "Don Rossi himself is sitting in the lead vehicle. His men are heavily armed, and they are demanding an immediate audience with you. They say they know what just happened in the ballroom."
Imani went completely still. The Rossi family was the most powerful faction on the East Coast Commission. If they were already at her gates, it meant they had inside knowledge of the gala—and they had likely been waiting nearby for an excuse to strike.
"Preston was a rat," Imani whispered, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. The sudden, unprovoked attack on her mother hadn't just been drunken arrogance; it was a calculated provocation. Preston had intended to cause a massive scene, knowing Imani would react violently, providing the Rossi family the perfect, public justification to intervene and attempt a hostile takeover of her territory under the guise of enforcing Commission rules.
"Boss?" Marcus asked, the tension clear in his voice. "Do I tell them to leave? If they breach the gates, it’s an open war."
Imani looked back across the room at Gloria, who was watching her with deep, knowing eyes. The older woman didn't look afraid. She simply nodded, offering her daughter the silent permission to do whatever was necessary to survive.
"No," Imani said smoothly into the phone, her mind racing with calculated precision. "Do not tell them to leave. Open the gates. Let Don Rossi's vehicle, and only his vehicle, pull up to the main entrance. Disarm his men at the door and bring him to the library."
"Are you sure, Boss?" Marcus hesitated. "If he gets inside..."
"I want him inside," Imani interrupted, a dark, merciless smile curling the corner of her lips. "He thinks I am distracted. He thinks I am a grieving, humiliated wife who just lost control of her emotions in front of the entire city. Let him walk into the lion's den believing the lion is wounded."
"Understood, Boss. We will bring him up," Marcus replied before cutting the line.
Imani placed the receiver back on the desk. She looked down at her ruined crimson velvet gown, soaked in water and champagne, stained with the blood of her treacherous husband. It was not the attire to receive a rival Don.
"I need to change," Imani said quietly, looking toward the adjoining master bedroom.
May you like
"Wear the black suit," Gloria suggested softly from the sofa, her voice calm and absolute. "The one with the silk lining. You are not a hostess tonight, Imani. You are an executioner."
Imani nodded, a profound sense of deadly purpose settling over her. "Yes, Mama. The black suit."
