The True Mafia Princess Who Never Came Home

ra

nd the comforting warmth of my mother's rough, calloused hands. I remembered how she had whispered, "You are worth more than all th

soft sweater and placed it in the center

material anchor the Romano Syndicate had ever given me-was cold and unyielding in my hand. I pl

t me pass without question. To them, I was still just the ghost in the attic-present but invisible, som

tan boutique-a gleaming cathedral of marble floors, blin

age toward the consignm

display of silk scarves, my path was b

rd, my grip on my

, I loo

as stand

his arm, holding three

eyes immedia

gh the city like a vagrant?" he dem

o answer. Instead, I just re

kicked my battered suitcase with the pointed toe of her des

d shirts, and the soft sweater spilled

out from the folds and hit the ground,

stopped and stared, whis

s, his broad back becoming a wall between the scene and the public. "Pack your thin

arm free f

ouch me,"

enter of the pile of my belongings. She looked

ought her stiletto heel down on my mother's smilin

A pathetic little thief trying to sell our family's luxury goods on the street.

face of the woman who had st

ceded into nothing. My vision narrowed until the only thing I c

ster!" I

ngth. My palm connected with Natalia's cheek in a l

snapped t

y wrists, twisting my arms behind my back and immobilizing me again

realized with cold, perfect clarity that it was not rage I felt from him-it was panic. The panic of

retaliation, knowing