1. Allie
Allie
When I was a little girl, I had big princess dreams. The kind where I wore an over-the-top ballgown, met my prince on a white horse, and got whisked away to some magical kingdom where I was blissfully happy. After all, I was Papa’s little princess.
“Principessa,” he called me, Italian for, you guessed it, “princess.” And he meant it.
But let’s be real—fairy tales missed a crucial detail with my kind of royalty.
Because I don’t live in a castle with turrets and singing woodland creatures.
No, I live in a prison. A lavish, marble-covered, gold-trimmed prison, but a prison nonetheless.
Sure, I wake up every day and slip into custom Italian designer clothes directly from the runway, swipe my black Amex without a second thought, and bask in the constant stream of groveling from people who know exactly who my father is. Whatever I want, I get.
Except for the one thing I actually want.
Freedom.
I am a princess, but a mafia princess. A title that comes with all the luxuries of a high-society socialite and none of the autonomy of an actual human being.
My father is a Capo in the Cosa Nostra, working directly under Don Bennetti. That means he’s a boss, and as his only daughter, my future was sealed the second I was born, whether or not I wanted to follow that future.
And, shocker, I do not.
People assume a mafia princess spends her days shopping, her nights clubbing, and her life smiling for cameras. Been there, done that, got the overpriced exclusive Hermes handbag.
None of it’s for me.
You know what I actually dream about? Cooking. Not for show. Not to impress some future husband with my ability to make pasta from scratch. But because I love it. Because food brings warmth and joy. Because creating something with my own hands feels real in a world where everything else is fake.
But mafia princesses don’t cook.
We don’t do chores. We don’t get our hands dirty. We don’t work.
God forbid one of us joins the actual workforce, let alone dares to go to school after high school. The horror.
A mafia princess is a spectacle. A showpiece. We’re meant to be admired—draped in perfection, praised, and paraded as if we’re blue-ribbon trophies up for bidding. We’re the pretty birds locked in gilded cages, groomed to smile, wave, and accept our fate.
And the number one rule? There’s no leaving the Cosa Nostra. Ever.
Which, if you ask me, is a pile of absolute bullshit.
I didn’t choose this life. I didn’t choose my father, my last name, or the suffocating expectations that come with it. Do I love my parents? Of course. But do I love what they represent? Not even a little.
The Cosa Nostra isn’t all bad, though. They operate in the gray area, toeing the line between illegal and morally questionable.
Papa talks about the donations they make, the schools and homes they rebuild, how they take care of their own.
In this life, family extends far beyond blood.
Technically, I have hundreds of siblings, aunts, and uncles.
We live and die by the rules of family loyalty.
And my role? My entire existence has been leading to one thing: marriage.
I’m meant to marry someone in the Cosa Nostra. To produce heirs while my husband does whatever the hell he wants. Rarely are mafia wives treated as equals. They’re placeholders. Vessels for children. Lavish spenders of their husband’s wealth. Expert socialites.
And above all else? They must pretend to be happy.
Some of them are. Most of them aren’t.
It doesn’t matter, though. Because we don’t get a choice.
Standing here right now is stupid. And yet, here I am, because I refuse to roll over and accept that this is my only option. That this is the only path carved out for me. I refuse to believe it until I’ve exhausted every alternative. Until someone tells me there is no way out.
"He’s going to say no," Vinnie mutters, his massive frame practically blocking out the light as we stand outside the office door.
Vinnie has been my shadow since I was a little girl, assigned as my personal bodyguard. All mafia princesses get one. Not solely for our protection—God forbid a single scratch appears on our flawless skin—but because our virtue is apparently a national treasure that must be guarded at all costs.
The irony? Our future husbands will be anything but virtuous. They'll keep swinging their dicks around long after the ink dries on the marriage certificate. Hypocrisy at its finest.
"Your brother got out. You told me yourself he said we had a chance if we asked Bennetti."
"A chance," Vinnie frowns. "But, as I warned you, there’s a price. Antonio got out, but he had to pay the price. He lucked out and is happy with his price, but you might not be. He might not even give you the option. He could say no, or worse, he could go straight to your father, tell him what you’re asking, and how do you think that’s gonna work out for you, bambolina? "
I shoot him a snarl. He’s called me that since day one.
And sure, it tracks. I’ve been styled within an inch of my life for as long as I can remember—fresh outfits, pristine shoes, hair always camera-ready.
Case in point: today’s fashion disaster.
I’m wearing a shiny vinyl dress that has me feeling straight out of the Madame Barbie collection.
Toss me a whip and a spiked choker, and I could moonlight as a dominatrix.
For the record, vinyl is not comfortable. It sticks. It clings. On the upside, it’s currently waxing away hairs I won’t have to pay a salon to rip out later. Silver linings.
Mr. Bennetti’s assistant—a woman so slim she could double as a coat rack—taps her crimson nails against the desk, each click dripping with judgment.
Her blood-red lips curl into a venomous smirk as she tosses her glossy black hair over one shoulder and scans me with the disdain of someone spotting gum on their Louboutins.
"We have an appointment," I say, my tone all sugar-coated steel. This bitch thinks she can intimidate me. Clearly, she doesn’t realize who my father is or what I’ve seen. Her nasty sneer is about as threatening as a wet napkin.
She taps a pen against the desk, unimpressed. "I see that, but just because you have an appointment doesn’t mean Mr. Bennetti will meet with you. So, I’ll ask again—what is your reason for requesting this meeting?"
Vinnie shifts beside me, silently asking if I want him to handle it.
I shake my head. If it were anyone else, I’d let him strong-arm them into doing what I want, but this is Marco Bennetti’s assistant.
And something tells me that if Vinnie so much as sneezed in her direction, her skeletal frame would snap in half, and Bennetti wouldn’t be pleased.
People say he’s crazy. Then again, all men in the Cosa Nostra are varying degrees of insane. And considering what I’m about to do, I probably belong in a padded room myself.
I lean in, flashing my best Mafia Princess smile. "Can you please tell Mr. Bennetti that Alessandra De Luca is here to meet with him? And if he refuses to see me, I’ll be leaving the Cosa Nostra without his permission and he can go fuck himself."
Vinnie stiffens beside me, and the assistant’s lips part in shock, her gaze flicking up and down as if reassessing every decision that’s led to this moment.
Vinnie leans down, voice low. "I thought I told you not to poke the bear."
I nod toward the assistant, still gawking like she’s never seen a woman in heels before. “That look like a bear to you?” I hiss. “More like a half-starved hyena. Someone get her a sandwich. Or better yet, a sandwich with a surprise ingredient. Preferably arsenic.”
Without a word, she picks up her phone, pressing a button before her voice turns sugary sweet.
"Mr. Bennetti, it’s Francesca. Your new assistant, sir.
I started six months ago…" She trails off, immediately dropping her pen.
"Yes, of course, sir, I know I’ve worked here long enough to know better.
I know you asked not to be interrupted, but—" Her dead, soulless eyes flick to me.
You know what, I take it back. A wet napkin is more threatening.
"Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Your appointment is here.
Miss De Luca." She clears her throat, and I watch the color drain from her face at an alarming rate. I may be dressed one whip-crack away from a new career, but she’s wearing a skin-tight white dress so sheer I can see the outline of her nipples through the fabric.
And somehow, even in this absurd outfit, I’ve still outclassed her.
I believe this is rock bottom.
"Yes, sir, I know. But Miss De Luca has said that if you do not meet with her…” she chews on her blood red painted lip, clearly debating if she has the nerve to repeat what I said. “She will leave the family without your permission." Chicken.
Francesca’s voice barely makes it past a whisper before she jerks back with a shriek, dropping the phone just as the office door swings open, kicked in by the wrath of God himself.
Marco Bennetti, the Don himself, steps out, and the room shifts—air sucked clean, gravity bending around him in that silent, terrifying way only true power manages.
His secretary practically launches from her chair, all but swooning in his direction, teetering between full-blown worship and hormonal freefall.
I mean, fair. The man’s objectively hot. Annoying, but hot.
The man is a living, breathing, villainous fantasy.
Dark brown hair, sharp liquid fire amber eyes missing all the warmth, an angular jawline and basically rocking the look of a man carved by an ancient sculptor with a god complex topped off with a silk-lined designer suit.
No wonder the women of the Cosa Nostra fan themselves into heatstroke whenever his name comes up.
But let’s be real—he’s also the devil in Armani, which, for me, significantly dulls the shine.
His gaze drags down my body, slow and assessing, before he nods at Vinnie. "You stay out here."
"I prefer not, sir," Vinnie says, standing there with the unwavering resolve of a man who clearly skipped the self-preservation gene. Bold choice. Especially from the guy who told me not to poke the bear.
Marco smiles—and not the charming, let’s-share-a-glass-of-wine kind of smile.
No, this one’s colder. The kind of smile that makes your stomach plummet and your survival instincts shriek abort mission.
Goosebumps crawl up my arms, but instead of bolting, I dig my heels in.
Because unlike the other silk-wrapped mafia daughters who faint at confrontation, I was apparently born with a steel spine.
One my Papa never tires of reminding me is a pain in his ass.
"Are you insane?" I whisper at Vinnie through gritted teeth.
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring down Marco, who now stands there with his arms folded over what is definitely a chest carved from punishment and protein powder, watching us both with all the casual menace of a lion deciding whether the snack in front of him is worth the calories.
I muster up my confidence, which at this point is hanging by a very thin, very frayed thread, and flash my best fake smile. It’s about as convincing as a politician’s campaign promise, but it’s the best I’ve got.
"Fine," Marco says, gesturing for us to follow.
I swallow the ten-pound lump lodged in my throat and step into the office, brushing past him.
That’s when it hits me—his scent. Sharp, expensive cologne layered with something darker.
Dangerous. Now I know exactly what the devil smells like.
And no, it’s not brimstone. It’s sin in a bottle with a designer label.
The office is stark, almost clinical. A single mahogany desk, a laptop, a phone, and one file folder.
There’s a small sofa in the corner and two chairs across from the desk, but nothing personal.
No photos, no art, not even a stray coffee cup.
It’s like the man doesn’t actually live in any of the spaces he owns, which, given his reputation, makes complete sense.
The only other living presence in the room is a man built from concrete with a chip on his shoulder for charm.
He’s posted up against the wall, exuding bouncer energy—the kind who’s seen too much and trusts no one—but there’s nothing casual about the way his nearly black eyes follow my every step.
Even more telling is how closely they’re watching Vinnie.
I know exactly who he is. Marcello.
Comically called "Marco" for short—because creativity died years ago in the Cosa Nostra.
He’s the bodyguard. Bennetti’s personal shadow. Which means two things:
He could kill a man with a toothpick.
2. He probably already has.
People don't hire men like him; they're chosen, and any man trusted to guard the most powerful boss in New York isn’t someone you cross unless you’ve got a death wish and a funeral plot picked out.
I try not to stare too long because he radiates, I’ll snap your spine like a breadstick vibe.
"Sit," Marco Bennetti barks.
I take one chair while Vinnie takes the other. Marco slowly lowers himself into his seat, unbuttoning his jacket before clasping his hands together on the desk. His amber eyes pin me in place and the confidence I had outside his office is now puddling at my feet.
Do I speak first? I have no idea. I’ve never been in a room alone with the Don before. Papa meets with him all the time, but that’s business. This? This is something entirely different.
"Miss De Luca," he purrs, his voice smooth as sin, but those sharp, calculating eyes go straight to my chest. Fantastic. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
I glance at Vinnie, who gives me a silent nod, which is no help at all. Great. Apparently, my spine abandoned ship between the hallway and this chair.
I clear my throat, clasping my hands in my lap. "Well, Mr. Bennetti, first, I want to say that I love my family, and I appreciate all you and your father have done for us—"
He holds up a hand, cutting me off. "Miss De Luca, you don’t need to stroke my ego. I’ve been told it’s big enough already. And I doubt you made this appointment just to tell me how wonderful I am. So, let’s skip to the part where you tell me what you actually want."
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and meet his gaze head-on.
"I want to leave the Cosa Nostra."