4. Allie
Allie
One hundred eighty two days ago, I sat across from Marco Bennetti and told him I wanted out of the Cosa Nostra.
Bold, right? Brave, even. Except it felt less brave and more like volunteering to stick my hand in a garbage disposal.
Considering I’ve grown up surrounded by men who treat problems like pi?atas—whack them until something breaks—that’s saying a lot.
Sure, women leave the family all the time. But not mafia princesses. No, we’re groomed for one purpose: to be bartered off like rare Pokémon cards. My dad’s been shopping around to various “upstanding” families for years. Each one as appealing as strolling barefoot over broken glass.
The Romano family? Filthy rich but dull enough to bore me into a coma.
The Bianchi family? Lots of political connections, zero personality.
The Contis? Handsome. But charming? Eh, if you’re into sociopaths.
Papa hints at these families over Sunday dinners with the subtlety of a jackhammer. “Oh, you’d be so lucky to marry into one of these families, Principessa.” He and I have different definitions of lucky.
My papa doesn’t get the final say. That honor belongs to Marco Bennetti, the Don. He’s the one who has to approve any marriage arrangement. And the Don doesn’t often say no. So, there I was, sitting across from him, tossing my dignity on his desk like a last-second Hail Mary pass.
Did he say yes? No.
Did he say no? Also no.
He said, “In my time. Not yours.”
And just like that, I entered the world’s most excruciating waiting game. Every time my phone buzzes, my heart jumps, thinking maybe it’s Marco finally setting me free. Spoiler alert: it never is.
The worst part? I begged him not to tell Papa. If my family knew I wanted out, they’d feel betrayed. They think I’m the perfect daughter. Principessa. Sweet, spoiled, but loyal.
They have no idea.
I feel awful keeping it from them, but I know the reality of what would happen if Papa even thought I was leaving.
I love my family. They’re not bad people—well, relatively speaking.
But I don’t want to marry one of these Cosa Nostra Ken Dolls and spend my life popping out heirs while my husband gallivants around with his mistress of the month.
I definitely don’t want my kids waking up one morning to the FBI raiding our house and freezing our bank accounts, because surprise!
all our money is technically illegal. I lived that life.
I know what it’s like to wonder if the unfamiliar car down the street is a neighbor—or someone sent to make us disappear.
I might be twenty-four, but I’ve got the soul of a sixty-something woman, and honestly, I’m one you should be grateful speech away from slipping into orthopedic shoes and moving to a retirement community.
Maria lets me into the kitchen to help cook, which is basically the equivalent of giving a kid the keys to the candy store.
Why? Because Papa’s at “work”—which, in our world, could mean anything from laundering money to burying a body—and Mama is probably out single-handedly keeping Gucci in business. The coast is clear.
I’m elbow-deep in dough, kneading it with a little too much enthusiasm. Therapy? Overrated. Dough between your fingers? Highly underrated.
Next to me, a pot of marinara simmers away on the stove. Not just any marinara—my marinara. This baby is my Frankenstein sauce, the product of weeks of experimenting like some mad scientist in an apron. Marinara is usually just marinara. Tomato, garlic, a pinch of basil. Boring.
But mine? A masterpiece.
Well, slowly crawling its way there if I can fine-tune the right mix of ingredients and get the flavor that pops right just the moment it slides onto your tongue.
Forget sugar—I’ve subbed in ground carrots and their juice to sweeten the tangy kick of fresh tomatoes. Anchovy paste for a rich umami punch, and, the pièce de résistance, a whisper of cinnamon. Sounds questionable? Sure. But trust me, it’s a little taste of magic in a pot.
"Smells delicious, Allie." Maria strolls back into the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.
Her dark hair is twisted up in a messy bun, the kind that looks effortless but probably took three hair ties and a whispered prayer to keep in place.
There’s a streak of flour on her cheek, and she smells like garlic, basil, and the underlying confidence of a woman good at her job and content in her life. I envy that.
The kitchen in our home is warm and rustic, a space that’s been lived in for generations and a stark contrast to the gaudy features that decorate the rest of the house.
Dark wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, and the cabinets—handcrafted by my Nonno decades ago—are worn smooth from years of use.
Copper pots hang above the stove, their surfaces dulled by time but well-loved.
The scent of simmering tomatoes lingers in the air, mixing with fresh-baked bread cooling on the heavy oak table at the center of the room. This is my heaven.
Maria peeks over my shoulder before going back to the pastries she’s rolling out for dinner this evening.
I grin, rolling the dough one last time. “Thanks! Just a little experiment.” I don’t mention it is helping relieve the growing tension of knowing whether or not I will be here tomorrow.
Maria laughs, oblivious, as I silently bask in the dream of one day—a day where my life doesn’t revolve around negotiating family alliances and fake yoga classes.
Twice a week, I’m not in downward dog but in a cramped community college kitchen, learning the finer points of French cuisine. As far as Mama and Papa know, I’m busy finding my Zen. The truth? I’m up to my elbows in béchamel and perfectly diced mirepoix.
The plan is simple. Leave the Cosa Nostra. Work the line at a restaurant. Live in a shoebox apartment. I’ll trade fancy clothes and personal shoppers for late nights, aching feet, and minimum wage. And it’ll be worth every second.
“Principessa!” Maria hisses, snapping me out of my daydream. She rushes toward me, eyes wide with panic. “Your Papa just came through the gates.”
My heart jackknifes. I glance at the clock. “Crap. Why is he home so early?”
I’m already yanking off my apron, tossing it onto the counter, and scrubbing my hands clean.
In ten seconds flat, I’m out of the kitchen, my hair flying out of its bun as I sprint down the hall toward the study.
I don’t even bother checking for flour smudges; there’s no time for a mirror.
I throw myself onto the couch with a book in hand just as the front door swings open.
Heart racing, I force my breathing to slow and flip the book right-side-up—because, yeah, it was upside down—and paste on an innocent just-a-girl-reading expression.
Papa walks in, his footsteps deliberate, his gaze scanning the room.
“Reading again, cara mia?” he says, smiling.
“Of course, Papa.” I flash a sweet smile, casually flipping a page. “You know how much I love Tolstoy.” I am so glad he didn’t realize that I was, in fact, not reading Tolstoy.
He nods, satisfied, as I internally high-five myself for the flawless save.
“How was your day, principessa?” He asks.
“Good, Papa. You’re home early.” I snap my book shut and rest it on my lap, giving him my best dutiful daughter smile. I’m hoping he can’t read between the smile lines and see I’m hiding something.
Let’s set the scene: I’m sitting here, pretending to be a delicate, well-behaved mafia princess in my designer prison uniform—a gaudy black Prada pantsuit.
Sure, it’s tailored within an inch of its life and costs more than a small car, but the only redeeming quality is that it’s a pantsuit, which means I didn’t have to shave my legs. Small mercies.
Of course, that’s where the convenience ends.
I still had to cake my face in foundation and bronzer, glue on my fake lashes, and top it all off with a spritz of my signature perfume—a custom blend of lilac and vanilla that Mama’s been forcing on me since my sixteenth birthday.
Sounds elegant, right? Wrong. It smells like a floral assault, and if I have to inhale one more whiff of vanilla that isn’t baked into a cupcake, I might hurl.
But perfection is the family brand, and as a principessa, I’m expected to look flawless from the second I wake up until the moment I dramatically collapse onto my bed at night.
Cozy yoga pants? Not in this house. Instead, I’m currently sweating bullets in my peach silk blouse and five-inch torture devices masquerading as heels.
Over the years, I’ve at least mastered walking—hell, even a light jog—across our marble floors without breaking an ankle.
Impressive, I know. Sadly, that’s the pinnacle of my talents.
Well, that and piano, which I loathe with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.
Every time Papa insists I play at one of his functions, I fantasize about taking a sledgehammer to that smug, shiny grand piano. One day, Steinway. One day.
“We’re dining with the Romanos tonight,” Papa announces, his deep brown eyes locking onto mine like a sniper zeroing in on a target.
Oh. No.
Fighting the urge to roll my eyes so hard they get stuck, I force a smile. “Oh?” My voice is a little too chipper like I’m genuinely thrilled about this not-so-delightful surprise.
Carlo Romano.
The ick in human form. He’s attractive, sure—in the way a well-dressed serial killer might be—but he’s also fifteen years older than me and gives off major you’d-look-great-served-on-a-platter vibes.
Every time he looks at me, I can practically hear him mentally adding a pinch of salt and a garnish of parsley.
Creeper.