CHAPTER 3
Luna
Beep Beep Beep
Huh? The front door just opened downstairs? The security system chimes again as it closes, further waking me. I turn and look at my watch on the charger.
Interesting.
It’s early as hell and this visitor is off the books. Since I checked Papa’s schedule I know the meetings he has today, a few different capos whose delivery teams are consistently behind schedule, even with the modifications I secretly make to our schedules and routes.
I don’t envy them the warning or reminders they’ll receive today. My guess today is that each one will lose a hand. Gross, but effective.
All of that doesn’t start until 11.
So, who is here at 8?
I look out my window but only see the usual blacked out SUVs that anyone and everyone drives.
Quietly, I get dressed in a black sweat suit and fuzzy slippers.
I brush my teeth but leave my smudgy face and crazy bedhead alone.
Should I run into anyone while sleuthing, it’ll look like I just rolled out of bed a little early in search of coffee.
I peek my head out of my door to check for any staff.
At this time of morning they’re probably all still in the kitchen.
They’d be the first to make a fuss about me being up and about this early, which is attention I don’t need.
Not only because I’m trying to get my spy on, but also because it is early for me and I truly do need some coffee. But coffee will have to wait.
I walk at a deliberately slow pace to the back stairs.
Papa’s office is the heart of our giant home, by design, which made eavesdropping difficult at first. Now, I easily make my way down the small carpeted staircase to the hallway that cuts through the house, pleased to see it’s empty.
I fake a yawn and amble absently to my studio.
A studio I begged for in my teens, when my plans to take over the family business started to solidify.
The room was a musty old sitting room before, but it has great windows and a view of the pool, so I insisted it was the right room for my music.
Almost twenty years I’ve played the cello every day. Until my fingers bled. Until the entire bottom half of my body went numb on the stool.
I pad into the bright room and fight a smile.
It’s hip and girly and happy in here. There are neon signs, leopard print and bright boho colors.
Plants, mood lighting. A piano, multiple cellos that must all be worth over a million dollars.
It’s a Pinterest-perfect version of a female musician’s paradise.
I don’t give two fucks about the cello.
But I do have a very comfortable pink gamer chair that I use for “composing” while wearing my “noise-cancelling headphones.” When I lean back in said chair, my head is just inches away from the vent that shares a ventilation shaft with my father’s office.
To keep my hands busy, I pick up my electric violin and start noodling.
Since it’s not plugged into the amp, I barely hear it.
“Terms!” Papa huffs, clearly angry. “That stronzo has the audacity to demand terms from us?”
“You knew this would be a mess, Padrone.”
Padrone. So the visitor is Bosco. He’s the only one who calls Papa Father. Suck up. He’s already the chosen successor, and still he cowers before my dad. I’ll have to cure him of that when I become his wife.
“He’s marrying into mia famiglia!” Papa barks. “We are bigger, stronger. He should have accepted right away, and gratefully. Coglione.”
Wait. Marry?!
Who is he calling an ungrateful fucker? Why aren’t they happy about the marriage? And which one of my poor female cousins is being shipped off?
“He should have. I said ‘Listen, stronzo, this is the principessa we’re talking about, not some no-name soldier’s daughter.’”
Prin…
Principessa.
I sit up and feel all the blood drain from my head.
Bosco goes on, “And he said he wasn’t interested.”
“Wasn’t interested. So he’s gay?”
“Oh, definitely not. Has a reputation with women.”
“Then he’s a liar. Anyone with eyes has been interested in my daughter since she was thirteen.”
Daughter.
Me. They’re talking about me.
No no no no no!
“I know, but he said she wasn’t his type. He only started listening once I got to the dowry and the marriage contract. Which he insists must include our help with his current headache in the city.”
Papa spews a string of curses in Italian but my mind is spinning so fast I’m missing things. Marriage contract? What city? Who the hell are they talking about?
Wait.
No.
Hell no.
Doesn’t matter who or what they’re talking about because this is not the plan. This is not happening. I’m going to marry Bosco. That’s always been my future.
Papa and I have danced around the subject for years.
I can’t exactly walk in and make demands, since I’m just “his little angel” with her shopping trips and pretty cello hobby.
I always knew I wouldn’t marry for love, especially when I was paraded around at events like an auction prize, just waiting for bidders.
But I’ve hinted and made suggestions about what I wanted. He said he’d keep me in the family, keep me close. Said he’d trust me to keep an eye on things as he nears retirement. I’ve even dropped Bosco’s name, more than once.
I hear the scrape of chairs on the floor next door.
“Fine,” Papa stands up, I think. “Get the updated contract sent over today. I want this done.”
“Yes, Padrone. But, uh,” Bosco stammers, as usual. I roll my eyes, as usual. “She, um, she—”
“I’ll handle little Luna. You handle the rest, Bosco. Now.”
Handle me.
Damn.
I hear Bosco leaving in the back of my brain but mostly I hear my own internal screaming.
Maybe I have done this all wrong, my plan. My life.
I thought if I played the gorgeous yet non-threatening, dutiful yet strong, smart but not too smart, regal, pure, virgin mafia princess, I’d end up right where I needed to be for my rightful coup. This is a man’s world, so I played to the desires of men. I didn’t show my cards.
To Papa, I’ve been the perfect daughter.
I’m loyal, adoring and aloof enough to not be a bother.
I know he’s used me and my oh-so-sacred-virginity to lure in partnerships over the years.
He hinted at marrying me off in the future to various men, including that one Canadian boss who got too close.
That guy mysteriously (to everyone but me and my hired hacker) went bankrupt overnight.
To the underworld, I am oblivious. Another sweet, silly, sexy mafiosa.
To Bosco, I’ve been a flirt. I made my interest in him clear, but in a cute, girl-crush kind of way. He believes I think he’s a big, brave, handsome genius. I scoff and drop the violin into my lap as I hear the man driving away outside.
He is big, one of the tallest men in our ranks.
I can admit he’s handsome, and one doesn’t become a made man without some measure of bravery.
But he has no strategic vision. No spine.
No grit. His first kill was in his twenties, not even his late teens.
He only speaks two languages. He worked his way to number two by being a “Yes Man.” He should stay number two.
My number two.
Bosco and Papa think I just want to shop, party and play housewife.
Only my best friends—Ellie, her sister Mia and my cousin, Zeno—know the truth.
Should I have told Papa? What would he think if he knew I have been training this whole time?
That I’ve been playing a long game, one where I come out on top.
That I know the business so well I dream about delivery routes.
I’m pretty sure I can evade most of his men in hand to hand combat, positive I can outshoot them with a gun and I am almost lethal with my knives, too.
I wonder what he’d make of the fact that I have my own black leather book with copies of all his accounts, contacts, projections?
That I was going to marry Bosco to take myself off the market and stay in my own house.
Next, I planned to make alliances, win over or kill off the necessary opposition and then announce my reign.
With or without my new husband at my side.
I’ve never killed but I was prepared to have to make an example of him.
Maybe my father would be proud. Maybe he will be. Maybe I should tell him now, show him who I really am, what I can do for our empire. Maybe he’ll agree.
I’ll handle little Luna.
Yeah. Doubtful.
Still, what other choice do I have?
I’m not marrying some puffed up goon from another family.
It’s settled then. I get up and head out in search of protein and stimulants.
When Papa comes to tell me the news, I’ll tell him the truth.