Taming The Mafia Boss Book 1

I was lying on the grass, reading with Alessia and Enrico. The sun and the scent of the garden flowers were far better than the cold walls of the library. My parents didn't approve of me being out here with my siblings. At nineteen, I was already a woman and shouldn't be wasting my time with teenagers. In fact, they said the same to Alessia, even though she was only sixteen.

In the mafia, you become a woman at eighteen, and I was expected to act like one, especially as the daughter of the Capo di tutti capi, the boss of all bosses. My father was above everyone in the Famiglia, and his family was supposed to set an example.

That's how Lorenzo ended up dead at the hands of our own father, to serve as an example.

"When does the action start?" Enrico, who was only eight, complained as I narrated the story from the book.

"You know it's a romance; there's hardly any action here," I murmured, looking at him and ruffling his brown hair.

Hurried footsteps crossed the gravel path before we could hear Mom's grumbling as her heels sank into the grass.

"With or without action, you'll have to drop the story," Alessia said beside me, and I forced myself to take a closer look at our mother.

If she were just complaining about us lying on the grass, she would've sent one of the soldiers to drag us inside. But with her serious expression, tightly pressed lips, and hurried pace, it wasn't good news.

"What happened, Mom?" I asked before she even reached us.

Her brown eyes, identical to mine, locked onto me, scanning me from head to toe as if she hadn't seen me in a long time.

"We need to talk. Come on," she said, extending her hand-not to help me up, just an automatic gesture of hers. "He's waiting in the office."

I turned, sitting up and holding the hem of my dress before standing, making sure it didn't reveal anything it shouldn't. After all, the house was surrounded by soldiers, and even though they were loyal to my father, they still had eyes.

"She didn't do anything wrong," Enrico said immediately, running to cling to my legs.

"It's not about that. Calm down," Mom said, brushing her hand over his rosy cheek before grabbing my hand. "It's just a talk."

Even with her words, my stomach knotted. It was never just a talk, not with Giovanni Mancini. My father didn't waste time with talks. When I reached the door of his office, I paused outside for a moment. My mother sighed beside me before placing her hand on the doorknob and pulling me along with her.

"Sit down, Angela," he said bluntly. Seated behind his mahogany desk in a wide black leather armchair, surrounded by shelves of books and artwork he didn't care about but were expensive enough to command admiration.

He looked up from his open laptop and fixed his blue eyes on me-the ones only Enrico had inherited. His gray hair and the lines on his fifty-year-old face should've made him seem fragile and old, but it was the opposite. My father looked as hard as a rock and threatening.

I sank into one of the chairs in front of him and clasped my hands in my lap. My mother sat beside me, her eyes fixed on her husband.

"The Bratva is getting stronger. They've allied with the Greeks and are trying to claim our territories. They're growing bolder every day. We're lucky to have so much prestige and to be at a truce with the Camorra and the 'Ndrangheta, but we can't ignore the threat the Russians pose anymore."