They buried Marco Russo in an unmarked grave in New Jersey at 4:47 a.m.
By 9:00 a.m. the news had already spread through every back room and back channel in the five boroughs: the Rossi princess had put three bullets in Marco's chest and one in his skull, then walked out holding Il Diavolo's hand.
The old men called it blasphemy.
The young soldiers called it legend.
Liliana stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the penthouse bedroom while Dante fastened a new holster around her ribs (black leather, custom-molded, the Glock 19 riding high under her left arm). Over it he slid a silk blouse the color of fresh cream, then a tailored black blazer. The collar peeked just above the neckline now, no longer hidden. A declaration.
He turned her by the shoulders and studied her reflection.
Hair in a low, severe knot. Minimal makeup except for blood-red lips. The collar gleaming like a crown.
"You look like vengeance in couture," he said, voice rough with pride.
She met his eyes in the mirror. "I feel like it."
He kissed the brand on the back of her neck, then handed her a small velvet box.
Inside lay a new ring (white gold, channel-set black diamonds, and a single ruby shaped like a drop of blood). On the inside, engraved in his handwriting:
L.M.
Regina Mia
My Queen.
He slid it onto her right hand, next to the engagement ring that had never been a request.
"Today," he said, "you stop being my secret. Today the city learns who really sits at my side."
The war room was already full when they walked in.
Twenty capos, lieutenants, and enforcers rose in unison. No one spoke. Every pair of eyes tracked the woman at Dante's right (no longer on his lap, no longer tucked behind him). She walked like she belonged there.
Dante didn't bother with pleasantries.
"Update on the Rossi remnants," he said, taking his seat at the head of the table.
Liliana took the chair to his immediate right (the one that had always been empty, the one rumored to be cursed). She sat without hesitation.
Vittorio began. Maps glowed on the screens: safehouses, money routes, remaining loyalists. Every name she once knew as family or friend now marked in red.
When he finished, Dante turned to her.
"Recommendations, Regina?"
The room went still enough to hear heartbeats.
She leaned forward, placed both palms on the table, and began.
"Cut the money first. The laundry on Mott Street (my cousin Stefano runs it). Burn it tonight. No bodies, just ashes. They'll feel the squeeze in forty-eight hours."
She tapped another location. "The docks. Seize the next shipment of girls. Not for profit (for message). Put them on a plane to anywhere that isn't here. Let the Rossis explain to their buyers why product vanished."
A third point. "Uncle Guido. He's old, sentimental, and he still thinks I'm a child. I call him. One conversation. He'll open the door for me. When he does, we walk through it with guns."
She sat back.
Silence stretched, thick and electric.
Then Vittorio grinned (slow, wolfish, approving).
"Fuck me," he muttered. "She's scarier than you, boss."
Dante's smile was slow and lethal. "That's my wife."
He gave the orders. Men scrambled.
By nightfall, three separate teams were moving.
Liliana stood on the terrace again, watching smoke rise from Chinatown. Dante came up behind her, slipped his arms around her waist.
"You just declared war in your own name," he murmured against her hair. "No going back now."
She turned in his arms, went up on her toes, and kissed him (soft, deliberate, claiming).
"I don't want to go back," she said. "I want to go forward. With you."
His eyes darkened. He lifted her, carried her inside, and didn't stop until her back met the dining table.
He stripped her slowly (blazer, blouse, holster, bra), laying each piece aside like he was unwrapping a gift he intended to ruin. When she was naked except for the collar and rings, he spread her out on the polished mahogany and feasted.
Tongue and fingers and teeth until she was sobbing his name, until she came twice against his mouth and once more when he slid inside her and fucked her slow and deep, eyes locked, whispering filth and devotion in equal measure.
Afterward, he carried her to bed, tucked her against his chest, and traced the collar with reverent fingers.
"Sleep, Regina," he whispered. "Tomorrow we start teaching you how to rule."
She fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat and the distant wail of fire engines answering the flames she had ordered lit.
For the first time in her life, Liliana Rossi (no, Liliana Moretti) felt exactly where she belonged.
At the devil's right hand.