Chapter 9 - The Silence of Queens
By October, the Rossy family’s European network was operating with a clinical, terrifying efficiency that had become the talk of the global underworld.
Three major cartels had attempted to misdirect, defraud, or misinterpret contracts with Dominic Rossy. All three had been intercepted before a single dollar left the New York accounts. The secret was no longer a total mystery—rumors were circulating from Trieste to Marseilles about a quiet woman who sat in the corner of every major meeting, holding a silver pen and saying almost nothing.
They called her La Spugna—The Sponge.
On a cool Tuesday afternoon, a heavy black SUV pulled up to the curb outside a quiet, brick elementary school in a residential neighborhood of Queens.
Mave stepped out of the vehicle. She was wearing a simple dark trench coat, her hair tied back in a neat, practical knot. She didn't look like a mob lieutenant. She looked like a mother coming to pick up her child.
Frank, the scarred driver, stood by the rear bumper, his eyes scanning the quiet, tree-lined street with practiced vigilance.
The school bell rang. A wave of children spilled out through the heavy double doors, laughing, shouting, and running across the yellow autumn leaves scattering the pavement.
A six-year-old girl with dark, curly hair and a bright red backpack ran down the concrete steps.
"Mommy!" Leo squealed, throwing her small arms around Mave’s waist.
Mave collapsed onto one knee—her joint no longer aching, thanks to nine months of physical therapy and proper rest—and pulled her daughter tight against her chest. She buried her face in Leo’s soft hair, inhaling the clean, innocent smell of crayons, apple juice, and fresh air.
"How was school, baby?" Mave whispered.
"It was great! I drew a picture of a house with a huge garden!" Leo boasted, pulling a folded piece of paper from her backpack. "And my teacher said I’m the best reader in the class!"
"Of course you are," Mave smiled, kissing her forehead gently.
"Mrs. Miller," a quiet voice spoke from behind them.
Mave stood up, keeping one hand resting protectively on Leo’s shoulder.
Dominic Rossy was standing three feet away, holding a small paper bag from a high-end bakery downtown. He was wearing a dark navy wool coat, his hands tucked into his pockets, looking out of place among the yellow school buses and minivan mothers, yet entirely relaxed.
He reached into the bag and pulled out a small, perfect chocolate croissant wrapped in wax paper, holding it out to Leo.
"For the best reader in the class," Dominic said softly.
Leo looked at her mother, waiting for permission.
Mave gave a small nod. "Say thank you, Leo."
"Thank you, Mr. Dominic!" Leo beamed, taking the pastry and immediately tearing into the flakey crust.
Dominic looked at Mave. His dark eyes, usually so hard and guarded, held a quiet, rare warmth as he watched the little girl happily eating her snack.
"Julian is fully recovered," Dominic mentioned casually as they walked toward the black SUV. "He’s taking over the Chicago operations next week."
"Good," Mave said. "Tell him to stay away from Chechen freight contractors."
Dominic let out a low, genuine laugh—a sound so rare that Frank, standing by the car door, actually turned his head in surprise.
"I have a meeting in London on Thursday," Dominic said, stopping beside the open car door. "The Scottish logistics group wants to renegotiate the North Sea oil rights."
Mave looked at him, a small, knowing smirk touching her lips. "Gaelic or Scots dialect?"
"Both," Dominic replied. "And probably some heavy pub slang designed to make me think they’re dumber than they are."
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Mave helped Leo into the comfortable leather back seat of the SUV, then turned back to Dominic.
"I'll pack my notebook," she said.
