The Wilson estate's council chamber was a room of polished glass and steel, a modern fortress for a family rooted in blood and tradition. Morning light spilled through tall windows, cutting across the long table where elders sat in tailored suits, their lined faces grim. Each carried the weight of decades in the underworld: smugglers, financiers, and tacticians. They had survived because they were clever, ruthless, and suspicious.
And now, they all looked at Isabella.
She sat at the head of the table, framed by the faint glow sunlight behind her. Her chair, high-backed and dark leather, seemed almost a throne. One leg crossed elegantly over the other, her blade rested across her lap, gleaming faintly in the light. A gun lay within easy reach on the table beside her her untouched glass of water.
The silence was suffocating.
Finally, Elder Ramos broke it. His voice was gravelly, weighted with disapproval. "Your father would have handled this differently. A shipment burned, the docks destroyed, and you... La Rosa Negra has nothing to show for it. Tell me, Isabella, how much longer must we pay for your youth?"
Murmurs rippled around the table. A few nodded. Others kept their eyes carefully neutral.
Isabella's lips curved, not into a smile, but something sharper. Her voice was soft, smooth, yet laced with steel.
"My youth?" She leaned forward, resting her elbow on the table. "What has youth got to do with failure? it wasn't I who ordered the docks unguarded that morning. It wasn't I who signed off the security schedules with gaps large enough for a child to exploit"
Her eyes moved from face to face, cold and deliberate. "You speak of my father. He is gone. what remains is me. And you" she gestured at them with her gloved hand. "You remain here, alive, because I am not the fool you think i am."
The elders stiffened. The younger capos seated behind them glanced nervously at one another.
before Elder Ramos could reply, another elder, Vargas, leaned forward. His voice was low, dripping with quiet challenge. "Vittorio Racci is no fool either. He struck first because he knows you are untested. He smells weakness. And weakness invites ruin. Perhaps what this family needs is not a black rose, but a firmer hand."
A few muttered words of agreement followed.
Isabella didn't move. Didn't flinch. Only her gaze sharpened, her eyes glinting like shards of obsidian. "Do you know why they call me La Rosa Negra?" she asked softly.
The room stilled.
She uncrossed her legs slowly, deliberately. The blade slid from her lap with a soft scrape of steel, its edges catching the morning light. She set it on the table, the sound ringing like a warning bell. "They call me that, not because I am beautiful. But because a black rose blooms where no other flower dares, and its thorns draw blood from any who reaches too close."
Her voice dropped, each word measured, dangerous. "You think me young? I did not inherit this throne, nor did I claim it because of my father; I claimed it because I possess that power. You and I both know it."
The silence that followed was heavy. A few elders lowered their eyes.
At the far side of the room, Sebastian stood like a shadow, his posture relaxed but his hand close to the gun at his hip. He didn't need to speak. His presence was a reminder. La Rosa Negra was never unguarded.
Then Marcus rose.
He had sat quietly until now, his broad frame relaxed and his expression unreadable. But when he stood, the atmosphere shifted. Marcus Wilson was no longer just part of the committee; he was Isabella's blood, her uncle, a man whose loyalty was carved in stone.
"You question her," Marcus said, his voice low but carrying across the chamber like a gunshot. "And yet none of you raised your voices when Vittorio spat in our faces. You whisper about youth, about weakness, but it is not her weakness you fear, it is her strength."
He planted his hands on the table, leaning forward, his gaze sweeping across the room. "Make no mistake, although she might be young, she has more backbone than some of you. Although you all are here because of the truce, know this. If there is a betrayal by anyone of you. Your whole family will be executed.
The room froze. faces grim
One of the elders in the, Alvarez opened his mouth, then shut it when Marcus's eyes fixed on him.
They were all reluctant, but one way or the other, their family depended on the Wilsons. They were all fathers and grandfathers, yet they had to lower their heads to someone younger than them. They had to swallow their anger for now.
Isabella let the silence drag, savoring the tension. Then she leaned back into her chair, her tone calm, almost mocking. "Good. Now that we understand each other, let us return to the matter at hand. The docks are gone. Our enemies believe they have drawn first blood."
Her hand drifted lightly over the hilt of her blade. "They are wrong. Blood has not yet been spilled. But it will be. And when it does, it will not be ours."
A faint shiver rippled through the room. Even Marcus glanced at her, a flicker of surprise in his eyes not at her words, but at the cold certainty with which she spoke them.
For the first time that morning, no one dared to speak against her.
Later, as the meeting dispersed, whispers floated in the hallways. Some called her reckless, others praised her as her father's daughter, and some weren't happy. They all left with those thoughts on their minds. But none of them could deny one thing: Isabella Wilson, La Rosa Negra, had just reminded them why she sat at the head of the table.
And in the shadows behind her, Sebastian followed in silence eyes scanning every corner, every face, as through daring anyone to step too close.
Marcus lingered at her side, his voice low just enough for her to hear. "You silenced them today. But watch them. They will come again"
Isabella's lips curved faintly, though her gaze stayed forward. "Let them, roses bloom better when they are tested"