Page 2 of Mafia Princess

“Please, Tristan,” I beg.

His eyes linger on a point behind me, and his gaze narrows as I hear footsteps approaching. “If you scratch it, you buy it. You owe me.” He drops the key in my hand.

“Thank you. I love you.” I tiptoe and kiss his cheek before swinging my leg over and straddling the black Ducati.

“Are you fucking crazy?” Mason looks at Tristan in horror.

“Always,” Tristan balances the helmet on my head and takes my bag from my shoulders.

“Maya, Papa will fucking kill you, me, and Tristan if anything else happens to you.” Mason grabs my arm, surveying my face for the damage already appearing.

“Well, if I die, I won’t have anything to worry about, will I?” I remove his fingers from my bicep and slide the key into the ignition. The bike purrs to life and the noise is like music to my ears, drowning out the world around me.

“Your funeral.” Mason shrugs.

My eyes slide to Milan. He stands there silent, his gaze raking over me straddling the bike with my tiny gym shorts riding up to reveal my muscular thighs. Fucking creep.

“Will I see you at the benefit tonight?” He shoots me a dazzling grin, one I’m sure most women swoon over. What they probably don’t see is the flicker of darkness in his eyes, promising vengeance for my indifference. I can’t deny he’s fucking hot, and he knows it. He’s the typical sexy Italian, with deep brown eyes you could get lost in if you stared too long, and thick, almost black hair that looks un-styled but you know he spent hours perfecting it in the mirror.

I slam the helmet onto my head, ignoring him. I twist the throttle and the bike purrs louder, enough to drown out his voice. Without a sideward glance at them, I tear out of the parking lot, leaving a dust storm behind me.

The hum of the bike on the open road and the feeling of every curve and bump beneath me puts me at ease. I love the open highway, where I can weave through traffic and play Russian roulette with cars, making adrenaline course through my veins. I live to ride. My papa bought me a custom purple Ducati 999S for my eighteenth birthday. I named her Violet, and she is my pride and joy.

My entire childhood consisted of hanging out with my cousins and brother, doing boy things. This is most probably why I am a tomboy at heart, happy to be working on my bike or fighting. I think Papa wished I were a boy, so he could have two male heirs take over the family legacy for when he is unable to carry on. Instead, he got me, his Principessa-his little girl that is useless in handling the family business. Because according to him, women rarely do anything without their feelings getting involved.

_ _ _

My childhood stately mansion sits nestled just down the road from The Motherfucking Don Vito Corleone mansion used in The Godfather. Our Tuscan style villa sits in the Emerson Hills surrounded by hectares of lush green lawns, manicured gardens, and a twelve-foot-high brick fence, to keep the scum out. My papa, the respected New York Mob Boss, doesn’t take anything for granted. This includes the safety of his family and his men. We have an armed guard stationed at the front gate around the clock. No one gets in and no one gets out without passing him. He’s an ex-military soldier who fought in Afghanistan and has seen atrocities that our men will never even come close to.

“Papa, are you home?” I shout from the bottom of the grand staircase. I walk to the kitchen and find my childhood nanny, Vana, making her famous biscotti. It is a tradition in our house for everyone to eat dinner together. Rarely are we all home at the same time, but we make sure that if we’re in town, we eat together. Every Sunday lunch is spent together, it doesn’t matter where you are or if you’re dying; you make it home. Papa doesn’t care for excuses.

“Vana, have you seen Papa?” I head to the refrigerator to grab a San Pellegrino.

“No, he’s not home. He called to say he won’t be back before the gala and to get ready and go without him.” She eyes me warily before placing the tray of biscotti in the oven and proceeds to clean up her mess. Vana is used to seeing me battered and bruised. She has helped clean me up and hide the evidence from my papa many times.

“Weird.” I shrug and spot my two soul mates scratching at the glass doors that lead to the pool. “Storm, Midnight,” I croon to my two Dobermans and open the glass sliding door.

They both leap up on me in excitement.

“I miss you both so much.”

I drop to my knees and allow them to tackle me to the floor. They whine and lick my face and jump all over me, spreading muddy footprints over the white marble floors.

“Stop. Sit!” I command, and they both sit to attention, their ears pricking forward while they wait for me to stand and let them move again.

My Papa gifted me Storm and Midnight for my birthday, to keep me safe and to help stop the nightmares that used to invade my dreams after the night I learned what pure evil can do. They are my soul sisters, loyal as fuck, and they used to never leave my side until I moved to Providence to attend Verona Academy. They are trained to listen to me and only me, to the rest of my family’s distaste, as they run amok when I’m not here.

“Gosh, I love you.” I wink at them and they know they are allowed to move from their positions. They both bound up to me, lick my hands, and dart back out the glass sliding door to disappear towards the swimming pool.

“Maya, go get ready for the gala; I’ll clean this mess.” Vana looks at me with adoration and annoyance all rolled into one expression. I always make extra work for her; I’m like a hurricane in this family.

“Thanks. I love you more than you know.” I kiss her cheek before darting upstairs to my bedroom.

I sync my phone to the speakers dotted around my room and Tupac’s How Do You Want It thuds through the sound system. I lose myself to the music, letting the deep base vibrate through my soul as I dance around and use my bed as a stage. The song finishes, and I catch my breath just as the low mesmerizing lyrics of Trouble by Memorecks fills the room and gives me a wicked idea.

I eye the deep purple ball gown, hanging from the doorframe and give it the finger. The last thing I want to be doing is attending another charity gala to be paraded around like a piece of meat at the stockyards.

TWO

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