Chapter 13 - The Throne Room
Forty-eight hours later, the rain had finally stopped over Manhattan.
The penthouse at the top of the Rossi tower was eerily quiet. The crystal chandelier had been repaired, its sharp, prismatic light washing over the polished mahogany table where the nightmare had begun. But the dining chairs were gone, replaced by heavy leather armchairs arranged in a formal circle.
Emma stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, looking out at the city bathed in the cold, pale light of dawn.
She was no longer wearing the white apron. She wore a tailored charcoal wool suit, her brown hair pulled back into an elegant, severe knot at the base of her neck. The bruising on her face had faded to faint yellow shadows, but her hazel eyes were different now—harder, older, carrying the terrifying weight of absolute authority.
Behind her, the double oak doors opened softly.
Marco stepped into the room, bowing his head with genuine deference. ""The Commission elders have arrived, ma'am. They are waiting in the foyer. Helena Donati has been transferred to the federal holding facility in upstate New York. She won't see daylight again.""
""And Victoria?"" Emma asked, not turning around.
""Buried yesterday morning in an unmarked plot in Queens,"" Marco replied evenly. ""Per your instructions.""
Emma took a slow, steady breath. ""How is he?""
Marco paused. ""Dr. Chen removed the bullet. The lung is healing, but he lost a dangerous amount of blood. He woke up twenty minutes ago. He refused the painkillers and demanded to be brought up here.""
Emma turned around just as the private elevator doors chimed and slid open.
Julian walked out. He leaned heavily on a polished dark cane, his face pale and drawn, wearing a loose black silk shirt beneath a heavy overcoat draped across his shoulders. He looked battered, his sharp cheekbones hollowed by blood loss, but the raw, predatory fire in his dark eyes had returned.
The two of them stood thirty feet apart, the silence stretching between them like an electric wire.
""You should be in bed,"" Emma said quietly.
""I don't take orders from my staff,"" Julian replied, his voice still raspy from the ventilator tube, though the familiar, dry irony cut through clearly.
""You don't have staff anymore, Julian,"" Emma said, stepping toward the center table. She rested her hand on the heavy, leather-bound ledger resting atop the polished wood—the master ledger of the five families, bearing her signature in fresh, dark ink. ""You have a partner. Or an enemy. That depends entirely on what you say next.""
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Julian stopped three paces from her, leaning his weight onto the cane, his eyes sweeping over her transformed appearance. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.
""I didn't take a bullet in the spine to make an enemy, Emma.""
