The Don's Favorite lover Vanished (by Melissa Z) novel Chapter 17

**Title: The Story of a Girl Who Loved a Man Made Entirely of Secrets**

**Chapter 17**

**Chiara’s POV**

The hours of that night stretched endlessly as I immersed myself in the tumultuous saga of Vincenzo’s past two years—his madness, the turmoil that had engulfed the Russo family like a dark cloud, and the secrets that twisted their fates. Each page I turned felt heavy with the weight of betrayal, anger, and the thirst for justice.

With a surge of determination, I employed my finely honed intelligence skills, navigating the labyrinth of information until I pinpointed Katerina’s location in the heart of Prague. The thrill of discovery coursed through me like electricity.

“Dad,” I declared, my voice steady as I placed the intel file on the table, my gaze icy and unwavering. “That woman, Katerina. She and the Petrov loyalists, along with the Russo traitors who conspired with her—they all deserve to face the consequences of their actions. They must be brought to justice.”

My father met my eyes, his expression sharp and calculating. “I’ve already dispatched my men. In three days, they will arrive in Chicago, precisely as planned.”

“Good,” I replied, a sense of purpose igniting within me. Rising from my seat, I felt the weight of my resolve. “I’m calling for a hearing of the High Commission. I want the entire underworld to witness what happens when they dare to cross Chiara Rossi.”

Three days later, in the heart of Chicago, the atmosphere was thick with tension as I entered the secret chamber of the High Commission. The air was heavy with anticipation, and I took my place in the petitioner’s chair, the weight of my family’s legacy resting on my shoulders.

Behind me stood Marco and Tony, silent sentinels, their presence a reminder of the stakes at hand. I could feel their unwavering support, but my focus remained fixed on the defendants’ box across the room.

Katerina Petrov sat there, the center of my fury. My men had dragged her from her hideout in Prague, and now she wore a prison uniform that seemed to swallow her whole. The color had drained from her face, leaving behind a mask of fear and loathing.

Flanking her were three core members of the Petrov family, their expressions a mix of defiance and dread, along with Sal DeLuca, the rotund Russo capo who had once greeted me with a smile that now felt like a distant memory.

On the dais, five figures sat shrouded in shadow, the embodiment of the highest authority within the North American Mafia. Their presence loomed large, a testament to the power they wielded.

“The Commission will now hear the grievance of Rossi against Petrov and their conspirators,” the chairman announced, his voice cold and devoid of any emotion, altered by a scrambler to mask his identity. “Petitioner Chiara Rossi, you may present your statement.”

I rose, my heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and resolve. With a swift motion, I slammed a stack of documents onto the table, the sound echoing in the tense silence.

“Two years ago, Katerina Petrov,” I said, locking eyes with her, leaving no room for escape, “colluded with an internal Russo traitor, Sal DeLuca, to orchestrate a marriage trap. Their goal was to absorb the Russo family and eliminate me through the multiple attempts on my life. The defendants present today were her accomplices.”

Turning my gaze to Sal DeLuca, I saw the sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. “Sal DeLuca,” I accused, “on the night of the engagement party, you were the one who disabled the security system on the south side of the ballroom, allowing the Petrov hit squad to infiltrate. Is that not correct?”

His body quaked, panic seeping into his voice. “I… I didn’t! That’s a lie!”

“A lie?” I scoffed, a chilling laugh escaping my lips as I played a recording, his voice unmistakably clear as he discussed the treacherous deal with Dimitri Petrov. “In exchange, the Petrovs promised you control over all Russo port business in Chicago. Should I also present the Swiss bank transfers as evidence?”

Sal slumped in his chair, the color draining from his face, leaving him looking like a ghost.

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