Page 55 of Mafia Princess

Hesitating before I touch it, my heart skips a beat as I reach a hand out to open its sleek door. And who would have guessed, the key sits waiting for me in the driver's seat. I climb in and start up the purring fifteen hundred horsepower engine, this sexy beast of a car is my wet dream. I ease it forward, the rumble echoing through the large garage, and thank God the garage door automatically opens.

I crawl up to the entry gates and leave the window closed, waiting for the guard to let me through. He eyes the car suspiciously and takes out his phone, hitting dial and most likely calling Milan. Well, fucking shit, at least I got to drive it this far I guess. I’m about to reverse my ass back up the driveway when the guard motions for me to go through the gates. I stare at him dumbfounded, unsure if I saw it correctly, but he motions with his hand for me to proceed, so I do. I ease this sex on wheels slowly through the gates and mentally thank Milan for not stopping me. I’ll probably pay for this somehow, and knowing Milan, it will be in a depraved way.

_ _ _

I make it home to Staten Island in record time, speeding tickets piled up behind me, but it was so worth it. My heart hit the pit of my stomach a few times from the speed this machine launches at. It’s fucking insane. Our guard lets me through the gates, once I open the window and show him it’s me. He eyes the car and raises an eyebrow as I drive to our garage. Normally I’d park out the front, but I am not leaving this beauty out in the elements. Papa can have a whinge if he needs to.

Entering the house, it seems quieter than usual, an eerie vibe washing over me. I find Vana in the kitchen, baking as usual, and sneak up behind her, poking her in the ribs. She nearly drops the batter covered spatula in her hand and turns to hit me with it.

“My god, child.” She stops mid-strike and holds her arms out for me.

“Where’s Papa and Mason?” I wrap my arms around her and give her a tight squeeze.

“Oh, sweetheart. I knew bringing that boy here would be bad news.” She pulls away from me and goes back to mixing her batter.

“What are you saying?” I sit on the island bench and scoop a finger of batter out, shoving it into my mouth. The sudden movement making me wince, the cut on my ribs hurting more than the others.

“Your Papa is arranging your wedding as we speak. He’s decided to bring it forward to this Sunday.” She stops her stirring and closes her eyes.

“What the fuck!” I screech, my voice ricocheting around the kitchen.

“Language,” Vana reminds me.

Grabbing out my phone from my bag, I switch it back on, waiting for it to fire up before I send Papa a lovely text message telling him what I think of this arrangement. My phone pings at me with missed calls and texts.

Summer: babies are good, I took them back to Enzo’s place. Storm bit Emma!

Me: OMG! Is Emma ok? Fuck, tell her I’m sorry. Shit, they’re at Enzo’s. Please don’t let him near them.

I need to move from campus so my puppies have a yard to play in. Fuck, I’ve missed so many classes these last few weeks, I’ll probably be kicked out of there soon. Problem solved. I’ll be back here in no time. I groan out of frustration and hop off the island bench.

My phone buzzes again and I glance at it.

Unknown: I’ll be forwarding the fines to your address.

Fucking Milan.

Me: I’m not paying them

Unknown: You’ll pay one way or another.

My nipples perk up and sting from the cuts on them.

Me: Yep, by getting married to you this Sunday.

Unknown: Cheer up buttercup, You could do worse.

I don’t text him back. The irritation inside my veins sizzles at the thought of my free will being taken from me. How the fuck do I put a stop to this?

“Where’s Papa?” I ask, as I dial his phone and wait for him to pick it up.

“At his office in the city.” Vana frowns at me.

“Fuck this shit. I’m going to give him my piece of mind.” I storm toward the garage and hear Vana calling after me, as I enter through the doors.

I head straight for my Ducati, swing my leg over, and slam my helmet on. I fire her up, the rumble grounding me until my eyes snake across to the Bugatti, and my thoughts turn to turmoil.

Leaning forward causes the cut on my ribs to throb, but I ignore it. I tear out of the garage and head to the gates, which have opened without needing to slow my bike. I turn onto the main road and head to Little Italy. The thirty-minute ride will hopefully cool my temper by the time I get to my Papa.

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