Too Late For Regret: The Exiled Mafia Princess

nna

step leaving a faint bloody smear on the frozen fl

used to hand me free cannolis whenev

he soft yellow glow

nter. He looked up. His hand stopped mid

" and slid the deadbolt into place with a solid thud. Then

sacred cod

propped open, cigar smoke spilling into the winter air. Over the blaring jukebox, I heard the barten

ng hands over my ea

SUV turned the corner, slowing to a crawl

lla beside her, staring at my blee

," I wh

Just before the glass sealed shut, I heard her hiss: "The Don confirmed the exile

sheet of icy slush soake

watching the red taillights di

sion. Angelo. The ceremony was over. He had taken the oat

pped the crumpled exile papers. I ref

nst the rusted siding of an abandoned warehouse, pulle

l asleep, I wou

to pull me under, a small

han eight years old, swallowed by a faded oversized jacket. I

your feet," she said. Her voice wa

reached into her pocket and pulled out a ha

my throat. My own blood had left me to die. A namel

ou," I w

rone to patrols. Before I could protest, she grabbed my sleeve and pulled me do

cigarette hanging from her lips p

blood seeping through the canvas sneakers. She didn'

u wash

odd

a heavy, water

blasting from the rusty faucet, stinging my raw hands. Grit

e the agon

afia title. It just required someone willing

was kicked open with a sound like a thunderclap. Combat boots sto

?" a gravelly

r kicked the swinging kitchen doors open, holding up a glossy photograp