Chapter 9 - THE MAIDEN OF CHICAGO
Three weeks later.
The Belladonna estate had been completely restored. The shattered glass had been replaced, the marble floors polished to a mirror shine, and the high crystal chandeliers blazed with warm, triumphant light.
Tonight, the ballroom was once again filled with two hundred people—the top captains, lieutenants, business partners, and political allies of the Romano syndicate. But the atmosphere was entirely different. There were no arrogant giggles, no condescending glares, and no hushed insults.
The Capone family was gone, their assets seized and swallowed whole by the Romano empire. Arthur Capone had fled to Miami, stripped of his seat on the council, while Victoria had vanished into obscure poverty, her name erased from high society. The Moretti syndicate had ceased to exist, its remaining lieutenants swearing absolute, unyielding fealty to Matteo.
The heavy double doors at the top of the grand staircase swung open.
The trumpet fanfare sounded, and the entire ballroom went dead silent.
Matteo stood at the head of the stairs, wearing an immaculate black tuxedo, looking every bit the sovereign king of the Chicago underworld. To his right stood Eleanor, dressed in royal blue silk, a radiant, proud smile gracing her face.
And to his left stood I.
I was no longer wearing a maid’s black dress or a torn white apron.
I wore a breathtaking floor-length gown of deep emerald velvet, fitted perfectly to my frame, with an open-back cut that intentionally, proudly exposed the long, pale scar running along my left shoulder blade down to my ribs. Around my neck hung a stunning diamond necklace that had once belonged to my grandmother, sparkling brilliantly under the chandelier light.
My brown hair was swept back elegantly, fully displaying the tiny crescent birthmark beneath my right ear. I walked with my chin held high, my eyes calm, cold, and possessing the exact same unyielding authority that ran through my brother’s veins.
“Gentlemen and ladies,” Matteo’s voice boomed across the vast ballroom, echoing off the gilded ceiling. “Thirteen years ago, darkness entered this house. Tonight, the light is fully restored. I present to you the true heir of the Romano empire, my sister… Isabella Romano!”
The applause that erupted across the ballroom was deafening.
Captains bowed their heads respectfully as I walked down the grand marble staircase alongside Matteo and Eleanor. Men who controlled entire districts of the city lowered their eyes when I looked at them, recognizing not just a survivor, but a ruler who had faced down her captors and reclaimed her throne.
We reached the floor of the ballroom, where waiters in crisp white uniforms offered glasses of vintage champagne on silver trays.
I took a glass, looking at the young maid who was holding the tray. She was pale, nervous, her hands trembling slightly as she stood before the most powerful family in the city. She looked just as terrified as I had been eleven months ago.
I paused, setting my champagne glass back on her tray, and smiled gently at her.
“What is your name?” I asked softly.
The girl swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. “Sophia, Miss Romano.”
I reached out, gently touching her hand, pressing a thick gold coin into her palm. “You’re doing a wonderful job, Sophia. Stand tall. Never let anyone in this room make you feel small.”
Sophia’s eyes welled with tears of gratitude, and she bowed her head deeply. “Thank you, Miss Romano.”
As she walked away, Matteo stepped beside me, clinking his glass against mine with a soft, melodic ring.
“You’re soft on them,” Matteo teased lightly, a genuine, warm smile touching his lips—a look that few people in this city had ever seen.
“I remember where I came from, Matteo,” I replied, taking a small sip of champagne. “I spent thirteen years at the bottom. It keeps me sharp. It reminds me why we have to protect what’s ours.”
Eleanor joined us, wrapping her arms around both of us, holding us tight as the orchestra began to play a beautiful Italian waltz.
“My family is whole again,” Eleanor wept softly, kissing my cheek. “That is the only thing that matters.”
I looked around the room—at the glittering lights, the bowing bosses, the armed guards standing watch at every door, and finally at my brother, who had torn the city apart to bring me home.
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The orphan named Elena Vance was dead. The maid who had scrubbed floors in silence was gone.
I was Isabella Romano. And Chicago was mine.
