Page 60 of Mafia Princess

“Good.” I sign the documents on my phone and email them back to their accounts department. They basically handed over more than fifty percent of the shares in their company for a pittance. My negotiation skills are ruthless.

“Where am I taking you again?” Franko checks the rear vision mirror.

“To get fitted for my suit. I’m getting married in two days.”

TWENTY - ONE

Maya

Here I am again, staring at my reflection in the mirror, the ivory Vera Wang gown designed for me, hugging every curve like a second skin. The intricate beading would have taken hundreds of hours to apply and the pleated tulle skirt looks as though it swallowed a marshmallow and burst from the sugar overload. To be honest, whoever chose this design, chose well. This is exactly what I would have picked for myself if this were a real wedding. I swish the full skirt as the melodic beat of Prisoner by Raphael Lake plays in the background, setting the mood for the day perfectly. It hums inside my head, like a bad omen, my desire to break free and escape taunting me.

Yawning, I glance down at the tray of breakfast, readily made for me with all my favorite trimmings. I scoop up a pancake with my fingers, melted butter and maple syrup dripping everywhere. I lean over as I take a massive bite, hoping I don’t get any on the dress before placing the rest back on the plate and wiping my fingers in a napkin. I wash it down with a big gulp of strong coffee and hope the sugar and caffeine keep me awake.

I’m so tired, I barely slept last night, the nervous and angry jitters keeping both my mind and body on edge. At five in the morning, Vana had appeared with a herd of stylists and hairdressers hot on her heels. They primed and prepped every inch of me, transforming me from the sulky and defiant Maya Capelli to the Mob Princess everyone expects me to be. On the outside, I look like any other blushing bride, but on the inside is a completely different story.

My fingers run over the healing wound where Milan left his mark, the anger still fresh, and the urge to burn his face off ever-present. I haven’t spoken to him or seen him since that night, and I’m itching to face off at the altar. These fuckers think I’m going to go down without a fight, they’re going to be rudely surprised later today.

I walk over to my drawers and take out my purple blade, twisting it through my fingers, contemplating taking it with me to the ceremony. But I decide against it and place it back safely in my drawer. What I want to do to Milan will not require a blade.

I spot the note cards left by my secret enemy and pick them up, sniffing them for any lingering scents of someone I might know. My fingers run over the dried bloody scrawl, their secrets are hidden beneath their meaning, and not one of us an inch closer to finding out who sent them. Both, Luca and my cousin, Rico have been working behind the scenes with their men, riffling through the little information they have. Even the security footage is useless, the culprit disguising themselves to look like me.

Frustration doesn’t even begin to describe how I’m feeling. I’m stuck here at home again and who fucking knows where I will be living after tonight. At least my puppies are back home with me, here in our guarded estate. I was such a moron for taking them out of here, thinking that they were safe anywhere else. If the asshole that had painted my Verona dorm room had gotten a hold of my dogs, I don’t know what I would have done.

The sound of a horn brings me back from my thoughts and I realize the time to go has crept up on me. Glancing around my room, I take in all that was my childhood, and all that will soon be my past. The limousine sits out front, waiting for me to emerge from my room where I’ve been holed up since last night. It occurs to me that none of my friends will be there. Apart from family, I won’t know any of the guests.

“Mom, if you’re listening. This is not how this was supposed to go. But I promise I will end the fucker that murdered you.” I grip the diamond necklace around my neck and feel its grounding effects. “I can do this.” I blow out a breath through pursed lips and switch off my music. Shoving a huge piece of pancake in my mouth before I head downstairs, I take one last glance at my room and catalog the image with the rest of my past.

Papa is waiting at the bottom of the stairs and his face lights up in astonishment as I make my way down. I take careful steps, holding the front of my dress in my hand, ensuring I don’t trip in my Gucci bridal shoes.

Papa holds his hand out for me and I take it, letting him lead me around in a circle so he can get a better look at me.

“Your mother would be so proud of you,” he chokes up and pulls me into his embrace.

“Oh, Papa, don’t make me cry, I’ll ruin my makeup.” I hug him back.

He doesn’t speak of my mom ever, talking about her is too hard for him. His guilt these past few years, for what happened to her, eats at him to this day. I’ll never know why he never went after the vile fuckers who murdered her? Even when I tried to tell him I saw some of their faces, he dismissed me and sent me to therapy instead, and made me promise to never tell a soul of what happened that day.

He lets go of me and ushers me outside, where Mason, Rico, and Tristan are all waiting beside the limousine. Mason strides up to me and grips me in an intense hug, his arms almost squeeze the air out of my lungs, and I tap him on the arm to tell him to ease up.

He steps back and takes my hands in his. “That Milan is one lucky son of a bitch. Even if this is all bullshit.” He winks at me and I see Papa give him a look from the corner of my eye.

“Fucking eh’, he is,” I laugh, trying to ease the tension coiling in my gut.

“Seriously though, we’re all here if you need us. Just a phone call away, if you ever need anything. Family first.” He fist-bumps me and I want to cry. Cry for what seems like a fucking ending, like I’m going to my own funeral.

“Okay, enough of the mushy shit. Let’s get going.” Tristan ushers me away from Papa and Mason and into the back of the car.

“Thanks, dude. Can’t let anyone see this cold hard bitch cry on her fake wedding day.” I wink at him.

“I’ll see you at the church.” He kisses my hand and closes the door after me.

Papa, and Mason, seat themselves opposite me and then we’re off, heading toward my fake ass wedding. The nerves in my gut run rampant, and I have no idea why I’m so fucking nervous, but I lean forward and grab my bag from next to Mason to dig out my cigarettes.

“Don’t even think about commenting.” I glare at Papa, who zips his lips but still looks disappointed.

I chain smoke my way through about five cigarettes before we’re stopping for some unknown reason. Mason looks out the windows, trying to see what the hold-up is, when the divider between the driver and us starts to go down.

“Sir, we seem to have a problem,” the driver glances over his shoulder and shoots Papa a look.

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