Page 3 of Mafia Princess

Maya

Papa’s driver pulls up the Bentley out the front of the Four Seasons. I sit for a moment gathering my thoughts. Back in the day, when I was younger, I used to wait impatiently for these events. My mom and I would make a whole day of it, shopping on Madison for dresses, spa visits, and having our hair and make-up done for the event. Those days are long gone. The memories locked tight in a vault somewhere in the pits of my singed heart where I only venture when I want to remember I am still here, alive, and she isn’t.

I pull out a Marlboro Red and light up, taking a deep drag as the realization that the clusterfuck of my life is about to get so much fucking worse.

Same boring shit, different venue. The usual crowds will be in attendance, brown-nosing, and trying to schmooze with my papa. I skim through the gathering crowds, all waiting to get their photo taken, and escape into the lobby, avoiding eye contact with anyone I know.

I beeline straight to the nearest bar. “Your most expensive whiskey, thanks,” I order and wait for the barman to deliver it, admiring the sleek mahogany expanse of the bar that guards the expensive whiskey collection. My papa’s personal favorites all lined up waiting for him to drink when he stays in our penthouse suite.

I smell the distinct expensive cologne before I hear the approaching footsteps. The New Jersey mob boss sidles up next to me invading my space, but I don’t acknowledge his presence and instead patiently watch the barman pour my drink. I can feel him staring at me, his eyes taking in my less than acceptable outfit.

“Good evening, Maya.” My name rolls off him and his vile voice furls around me like a snake.

“Is it?” I scoff and take my drink from the barman, knocking it back in one long swallow. I nod to the barman for another as the alcohol trails a fireball to the pit of my stomach.

“I think it will be. After all, you and my son will debut tonight.”

I snort and glance up at him. This man is the epitome of old school gangster, with his designer pinstripe suit, fedora, and cigar hanging from his mouth. I purposely drag my eyes up and down his attire. “I didn’t know it was a dress-up party.”

“From where I’m standing young lady, it would seem so,” his eyes gleam unpleasantly.

“I’m not one to conform.” I shrug him off and turn my attention to my freshly poured drink.

“Defiant as ever, just like your mother.” His voice hardens.

I shoot him a death glare. I won’t let the mention of her from his lips get to me. Not tonight.

He chuckles, the sound low and depraved. “You better behave tonight. I will not have you embarrass my son in front of everyone. Live up to your name, Principessa,” he warns.

I raise my eyebrows at his request. “I’ll see what I can do.” I smile innocently and throwback my drink.

He studies me for a moment before striding back into the crowd.

I cradle the empty tumbler in my hands while trying to work out how to get Tommaso D’Amico to cancel mine and Milan’s arranged marriage. The idea sours my mood and I know damn well I can’t do a fucking thing about it. Once my papa gets an idea in his head, it’s hard to shift. And this idea is his fucking worst one yet.

“Fuck, Maya. Are you trying to give your papa a heart attack?” Rico, my cousin, narrows his eyes at me as he approaches the bar.

“What? You don’t like my ball gown?” I grin at him and glance down at my dress.

“It’s a fucking Tupac t-shirt that barely covers your ass.” He shakes his head.

“It’s vintage, from the 90’s.” I run my hands over the t-shirt, and memories of my mom wearing it nearly make my throat close up.

“Try to convince Uncle Jo with that excuse.” He leans on the bar beside me.

I take a sip of the drink the barman just delivered, and it glides down my throat, clearing away any anxiety building there. I turn to look at my cousin. “What’s wrong with lighting a little fire in his belly?” I hold my glass up and drink the rest of it, allowing it to wash away the sparks of anger brewing in me.

“Who’s he got lined up for you now?” Rico leans over the bar and grabs himself a bottle of whiskey and takes it upon himself to pour a drink. No one would question his actions. After all, he is the nephew of the notorious New York Godfather.

I turn to study Rico. His typical Italian heritage is displayed in all his features. Thick dark eyebrows with hair to match, dark broody eyes, and tanned olive skin covered in tattoos. I envy him. He does as he pleases, and no one cares. He isn’t crowned as the New York Princess, daughter of the Godfather, destined to be married to some rich fucker in order to gain more power for her family.

“What does it matter? I’m not interested.” I grab the bottle from him, press it to my lips, and take a long swig.

“You know you don’t have a say in this.” He pries the whiskey out of my hand. “It’s not like the old days; we’ll look after you. They won’t lay a finger on you.”

“Let them try.” I raise my eyebrows.

“Jesus, Maya,” Rico chuckles. “I feel sorry for any man that marries you.”

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