Seven bullets were still lodged inside my shattered flesh when Dominic Rossi made me his wife.

Power in the underworld does not tolerate a vacuum.

By noon the following day, word had leaked across the Five Families that Dominic Rossi was comatose on life support. The hyenas smelled blood. Rumors spread that Victor Costa was already mobilizing his remaining captains to seize the Rossi docks in Brooklyn and take control of the family’s distribution hubs before Dominic could ever wake up.

I was sitting in Dominic’s hospital room, changing the cold compress on his feverish forehead, when Enzo entered the room, his face grim.

"We have a problem, Clara," Enzo said quietly.

"What is it?"

"The Capos are meeting downstairs in the private boardroom. Sal Marcone and Jimmy Valenti are demanding a council. They’re saying that with Dominic incapacitated, the family needs an interim Don. Marcone wants to take control of the armory and cut a deal with Costa."

A cold rage, sharp and crystalline, sparked in my veins.

I looked at Dominic. His fever had broken, but his breathing was still shallow, supported by the hum of the ventilator. He had bled for this family. He had nearly died protecting me. And his own men were ready to sell his empire before his body was even cold.

"Where is Isabella?" I asked, standing up.

"She’s trying to hold them off, but the old guard doesn't take orders from a widow," Enzo replied, frustration dripping from his tone. "In this syndicate, blood and muscle rule."

"Take me to them," I said.

Enzo blinked in shock. "Clara, you shouldn't—"

"I am Clara Rossi," I interrupted, my voice dropping to a dangerous, steady pitch that made Enzo’s eyes widen. "I am his wife. Take me to that room, Enzo. Now."

Ten minutes later, I pushed open the double oak doors of the hospital's private executive boardroom.

The room was thick with cigar smoke and shouting. Six middle-aged men in expensive suits were leaning over the conference table, arguing aggressively around Isabella, who sat at the head of the table with cold, regal fury.

"...we can't wait for a dead man to wake up!" Sal Marcone, a portly, ruthless capo with graying hair, slammed his fist on the mahogany. "Costa has fifty men moving on the Red Hook terminal as we speak! If we don't negotiate terms today, we lose the docks!"

"There will be no negotiations with Victor Costa."

My voice cut through the shouting like a razor through silk.

Every head in the room snapped toward the door.

I walked into the room without my cane. Every step was agonizing, my torn stitches burning like fire beneath my black dress, but my chin was high, my spine iron-straight. On my left hand, Dominic’s massive diamond ring caught the overhead light with cold, blinding brilliance.

Behind me, Enzo stood with his hand resting deliberately on the butt of his sidearm.

"Who the hell let the waitress in?" Jimmy Valenti sneered, leaning back in his chair with a mocking laugh.

Before he could finish his chuckle, Enzo drew his pistol in a blur of motion, racking the slide and pressing the barrel directly against Valenti's temple.

The room went dead silent.

"You address the Donna with respect, Jimmy," Enzo whispered lethally, "or I decorate this boardroom with your brains."

Valenti froze, swallowing hard.

I walked slowly down the length of the table until I reached the head, stopping beside Isabella. She looked up at me, a glimmer of fierce, maternal pride flashing in her dark eyes.

I planted both hands on the table, leaning forward to lock eyes with Sal Marcone.

"My husband is alive," I said, every word dripping with absolute authority. "His heart is beating, his mind is clear, and the surgeons expect him off the ventilator within twenty-four hours. Any man who talks about surrender or interim leadership while Dominic Rossi breathes is committing treason against this family."

Marcone’s jaw twitched. "You're a civilian, little girl. You don't know how this business works. Costa isn't a street thug; he's a general. He has inside information. How do you think he knew about the transport route yesterday? There is a rat in our house!"

"I know there's a rat," I countered smoothly. "And I know who it is."

A collective murmur rippled through the capos. Even Isabella looked surprised.

"What are you talking about?" Marcone demanded, his eyes shifting nervously.

I pulled a folded piece of paper from my coat pocket and tossed it onto the center of the table.

"While you were busy planning a coup, I had Enzo pull the phone logs from the private dispatch terminal at the estate during the perimeter breach two nights ago," I said, watching Marcone’s face drain of color. "Only three people had the encrypted frequency to redirect the outer perimeter guards away from the north gate where the vans breached. Jimmy Valenti was in Manhattan. Enzo was with me."

I pointed a finger directly at Marcone.

"The third was you, Sal. You made a three-minute call to an unlisted satellite number in San Diego twenty minutes before the first bomb went off. San Diego is Costa's headquarters."

Marcone stood up abruptly, knocking his chair backward. "This is a lie! She's framing me!"

He reached for the inside of his jacket, but he was too slow.

Two Rossi loyalists flanking the door drew their weapons, while Enzo stepped around the table and kicked Marcone’s legs out from under him. Marcone slammed heavily against the carpet, pinned down under the boots of Dominic’s most ruthless enforcers.

"Take him to the basement," I commanded without blinking. "Hold him until Dominic wakes up. Dominic will decide his fate."

"You can't do this!" Marcone screamed as they dragged him toward the private service elevator. "You're nobody! You're a catering girl!"

"I am Dominic Rossi's wife," I answered, watching the doors close on his terrified face.

I turned back to the remaining capos. They were staring at me now with an entirely different expression: pure, unadulterated fear and newfound reverence.

"Now," I said, resting my hands on the table. "Enzo, deploy the third and fourth squads to reinforce Red Hook. If a single one of Costa’s men sets foot on our docks, do not negotiate. Exterminate them."

"Yes, Donna," Enzo answered, bowing his head.

When the room emptied, Isabella stood up and wrapped her arms around me, holding me tight.

"You are your father's daughter, Clara," she whispered softly. "And you are the Donna this family has needed for twenty years."

As if answering the call of the war we had just declared, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was the ICU nurse.