4. Allie #2
Papa unbuttons his jacket and takes his usual spot in the armchair across from me.
The study—unlike Papa’s hard edges—is all soft cushions and cozy furniture.
Thank Mama for that. Built-in bookshelves line the walls, filled with everything from The Art of War to Pride and Prejudice.
Papa likes to think his collection makes him a well-rounded intellectual.
I prefer to think of it as a visual reminder that he could easily switch from negotiating business deals to quoting Mr. Darcy. Terrifying.
Meanwhile, I safely stashed my collection of Violet Hart novels under my bed.
Papa calls them “smut.” I call it self-care.
Or more accurately, living vicariously through women who aren’t trapped and—bonus—have mind-blowing orgasms. Not those half-hearted, participation-trophy kinds I’ve experienced.
No, these heroines get the gold-medal Big O’s—the kind I’m still waiting for in real life.
According to Papa, however, I have no clue what the Big O is. Why? Because in his world, mafia princesses are supposed to be untouched, wrapped in a perfect little bow for their future husbands. Virginity: the Cosa Nostra’s most prized currency.
Yeah, about that…
Let’s just say I cashed in my V-card years ago.
No way was I going to save it like some wedding night surprise gift for my future husband.
I took matters into my own hands—or rather, into the hands of a particularly talented guard with a tongue that deserved its own Michelin star. Laundry room. Ten minutes. No regrets.
But since that one rebellion-fueled night? Nothing. Nada. Three years of forced celibacy. What happens to a vagina that’s out of commission for that long? Do cobwebs form? Does it shrivel up like an old sponge? I wouldn’t know because my virtue—aka my social life—is constantly monitored.
So yeah, I live vicariously through heroines who run their businesses, wear sweatpants, and get the occasional toe-curling orgasm.
Papa clears his throat, bringing me back to reality. “What do you think of Carlo?”
I think he’s a pit viper that figured out how to squeeze into a three-piece suit.
“He’s… alright, I suppose.” You thought I was going to say that out loud? Cute. Mafia princesses don’t just go around insulting potential suitors. We have tact.
“He’s shown interest,” Papa says, quirking one of his perfectly waxed brows. Yes, waxed. My terrifying mafia boss of a father gets his eyebrows professionally groomed every other week.
I carefully place my book beside me on the couch, ensuring the spine faces away from Papa. No need for him to see my contraband. He hides illegal firearms; I hide spicy romance novels. We’re both rebels in our own way.
“He’s rather…” How does one politely say a man is slimier than an oil slick? Every time Carlo touches me, I feel like I need to bathe in bleach. “Papa, don’t you think he’s a little… old for me?”
He snorts. Bad argument. Age gaps in the Cosa Nostra are as common as over-gelled hair. A fifteen-year difference isn’t scandalous here—it’s standard. One of my “friends” recently married a man twenty-three years older. No thanks. I’m not marrying a man who has Papa on speed dial for poker nights.
“Principessa, it’s not that big of a difference. You two have a lot in common.”
If by “a lot in common” he means we both breathe oxygen, then sure. Otherwise, the only thing we share is being related to people with criminal records.
“He’s very wealthy,” Papa continues, his tone all practicality. “He could give you a good life. A nice house, whatever car you want, as much clothes as you can buy.”
Ah yes, the Holy Trinity of Happiness: a house, a car, and unlimited clothes. Never mind that I can’t buy $26 yoga pants because I don’t have $26 of my own, and even if I did, Papa would rather die than see his daughter in yoga pants.
I shrug, keeping the cringe from reaching my face. “We’ve talked, Papa. I just… don’t feel anything.”
What I don’t say is that Carlo gives off serious Dateline vibes. I’m fairly certain he’d take out a fat life insurance policy on me and light our house on fire for the payout. Not exactly the recipe for a dream marriage.
With the worst timing possible, my phone lights up on the side table. The screen reads “Nonnatus.” My code name for Marco Bennetti. Because, let’s be real, I can’t have The Don casually flashing on my phone when Papa’s around. Too many questions. Zero good answers.
Nonnatus, by the way, comes from St. Raymond Nonnatus—the guy who volunteered to take the place of Christian captives and got locked up himself. I’m not technically a captive, but this life is suffocating enough to feel like I’m on some medieval hostage exchange program.
I hit the ignore button on my phone with my brain scrambling for an excuse to escape Papa’s study and call him back. Preferably from the furthest, most forgotten corner of the vegetable garden—where no one would think to find me unless they were actively searching for a runaway.
“I think I’ll take a walk,” I say, already halfway out of my seat and smoothing down my ridiculous pantsuit.
Papa eyes me like he’s deciding whether I’m really going for fresh air or plotting my next act of rebellion. He adjusts his cufflinks. “Wear the new Valentino tonight for dinner.”
Ah, the dress. The one with more cleavage than fabric. Just perfect for an awkward dinner with Carlo, who absolutely strikes me as the secret-basement-playroom type.
Holding in a full-body shudder, I nod, grab my phone, and power-walk out of the study. I turn down the hallway, ducking beneath the grand staircase, my heels click-clacking against the marble with each hurried step. I’d run, but that would draw attention.
The second I reach the patio doors and step outside, I immediately regret this idea.
Outside is humid. Sticky. Hot. The kind of heat that makes your clothes cling to you like a desperate ex who can’t take a hint.
Even though it’s technically spring, New York’s weather is about as reliable as my excuses when Papa catches me sneaking off.
Greenwich is usually lovely—if you like spending your days sweating in pantyhose while pretending you’re living some glamorous life.
And speaking of pantyhose…
“Oh, hell!” My heel sinks into the grass like a stake through Dracula’s heart. See? Another reason dressing up is stupid. What if I needed to make a quick getaway? Death by stilettos is not how I plan to go.
I yank off my heels, my toes wiggling in sweet relief.
If feet could sigh, mine would sing a hymn of gratitude.
I clutch my heels like weapons and make a run for it, my pantyhose absorbing all the lovely green dye from Papa’s precious, spray-painted lawn.
Yes, you read that right—Papa dyes the grass.
Eco-friendly? Not so much. Obsessive about appearances? Absolutely.
The vegetable garden is in the farthest corner of the estate, tucked away behind the manicured hedges, the infinity pool, and the waterfall—because naturally, every mafia estate needs a waterfall.
The whole area is fenced in with black iron and topped with those delightful pointy spikes of death for anyone feeling acrobatic.
It’s quite the trek, which is why only Maria and the gardener ever bother coming back here.