Page 1 of Mob Princess

Chapter One

Sean

I’ve been to way too many funerals for a thirty-one-year-old. I’ve stood beside weeping parents. I’ve carried coffins. I’ve sworn revenge, and I’ve gotten revenge. Today, I can only do one of those. I’m a pallbearer to the most influential man in my life who isn’t family. He was a graduate school professor who offered me opportunities no mobster should ever have. He did it at the risk of his own career. And now, after he did so much that jeopardized his reputation, I can do nothing to defeat the cancer that stole him from so many of us.

The Arlington weather is offensive in its cheeriness on a day so somber. The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. And the flowers sway in the light breeze. Yesterday would have been a better day for a funeral. It poured from sunup to an hour before everyone arrived at the church for the service this morning. The bright light is jarring against the crowd of somber black.

I glance down at my black suit with the charcoal gray button down and steel gray tie. I’ve been wearing suits since I could walk. Thank you, Christmas and Easter at Catholic Churches. Or really, thank you, Mom, for making sure your three sons always appeared like properly brought up young gentlemen. At least until we each turned fourteen and turned into mobsters. I normally don’t mind a tie around my neck; but today, it’s a noose. It’s suffocating me when I think about all the missed opportunities I had to express my gratitude to my late professor. All the doors he opened and all the nudges he gave me in directions a man with my family name never should have received.

I say the final Amen and make the sign of the cross as an ingrained habit. One that I still believe in, even if lapsed is putting it lightly. I’ve been aware of everyone in front of me. I’m standing outside the group of mourners because I don’t like people standing behind me. It makes me uneasy when I let people get that close, but I can’t see them. However, in a crowd of innocent people, I’d rather have my back exposed than put someone else in the line of fire if an enemy decides it’s time for me to join the dearly departed.

I drop my single white lily on the coffin as a woman standing across from me does the same. Our gazes meet, and it’s like I’ve been pole-axed. I’ve taken pipes to my ribs before, and that’s hardly a pain I relish. This is more extreme how she steals my breath. Her hair is so sun-bleached it’s nearly white. She’s definitely not a bottle platinum blonde. Her eyes are a deep amber I don’t think any colored contacts could replicate.

If I couldn’t see the resolve in her eyes, I would fear a gusty wind would blow her away. She’s 1990s model thin. Waifish. But she’s elegant, and her clothes give the appearance she just stepped off a runway. I only known one woman that slim who pulls it off in just as sophisticated a style—Anastasia Kutsenko, Niko’s wife. I’d take one Ana over a dozen of her douchey husband. Fucking— fecking—I am at a funeral after all—bratva.

The knockout turns away from me, and it’s as though someone robbed me. But I’m uncertain what they took. She’s headed toward the line of black town cars. Amongst them is mine. It’s just under an hour-and-a-half flight down from NYC, so I’ll head home tonight. But I have a car service while I’m here. Baltimore Washington Airport is in neither Baltimore nor Washington. Pain in the arse, but private planes can land there.

My arm shoots out and wraps around the blonde beauty as she jerks back and stumbles as her heel hits the curb. I practically haul her off her feet as I pull her away and twist to protect her from the spray of muddy puddle water that’s just soaked my entire left side. Fucking arsehole limo driver.

So much for not swearing.

“Are you all right?” I keep my voice low since my lips are beside her ear. Did she just shiver?

I have no chance to find out because she’s pushing my arm away as she takes a step forward. She spins around, clearly displeased I manhandled her. But when she recognizes me from only minutes ago, her mouth snaps shut. She nods as her gaze darts to the limo with the professor’s family driving away from the cemetery. Deep sadness flashes in her eyes, and it matches what I feel but refuse to show anyone.

“I’m fine. Thank you. He pulled out as I stepped down. I didn’t expect him to speed up so soon.”

“He should have paid more attention.”

“You’re soaked. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did.”

Her brow furrows, and we’re staring at each other again. She’s clearly waiting for me to explain. I’m the douche now because I want to make her ask. I want to know if she’s curious enough to acknowledge her confusion.

“Chivalry isn’t dead. Thank your mother for me.” She adjusts the fascinator with the birdcage veil, putting it back in place from where it slipped along her hair. I only know what the thing is called because of all the funerals I’ve attended with my mom and aunts.

Men who trained me. Men I trained. Men I went on missions beside. As painful as those are, they’re understandable in my line of work. My grief floods back, and I swallow. She must see my Adam’s apple bob because her expression softens.

“I’ll be sure to let my mom know the lessons stuck. And my aunts. They’re just as strict.” I flash her a smile that’s barely more than half-hearted but genuine.

It’s my dad and uncles as much as it’s my mom and aunts who ensure they drilled chivalry and civility into my brothers, cousins, and me. Old-fashioned by most people’s standards, but we aren’t all blood and guts just because we are the Irish mob in New York City. Hell, on most of the Eastern Seaboard. My dad and uncles would skewer me if I abandoned the manners my mom and aunts engrained in me.

I extend my arm, and she doesn’t hesitate to accept. “I’m Sean.”

She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that I didn’t offer my last name because she doesn’t drop a beat. “I’m Nicolina.”

Little Nicole. I wonder if that’s her full name or a nickname. I speak way more Italian than any of the Mancinellis realize. My entire family does. It pays to understand your rivals, so we all speak Spanish fluently, along with Italian and Russian pretty proficiently. None of the other families have bothered to learn Irish Gaelic. Works for us.

“It’s nice to meet you. Were you one of Dr. Carmody’s students?” A good Irish last name most people wouldn’t know comes from the motherland.

“I was. I graduated from the master's program three years ago.” That likely makes her twenty-six or twenty-seven to my thirty-one. Not a bad age difference, but why am I thinking about that?

“I finished seven years ago.”

Her expression would be impassive to most people, but I spend my life reading what people don’t want their facial and body language to show. It’s speculative, and it makes my cock think about twitching. Not what I need right now.

“Cybersecurity?”

---