Page 1 of Wicked Prince

ChapterOne

AMELIA

Where is he?I wonder, straining to look through the crowd of people reuniting with their loved ones.

The flight from Boulder to Brooklyn was grueling, and I'm so tired and ready to be at my destination that I'm actually looking forward to what's guaranteed to be an awkward reunion with the father I haven't seen in years—with one notable exception.

Even at my mother's funeral, he barely said a word to me.

My mother and I always existed on the fringes of his world, the inconvenient remnants of a past he would rather leave behind. That's the nature of being a mob boss's mistress and illegitimate daughter. Protected, but unwanted. Surveilled, but invisible. Censored, but voiceless.

Mom passed away a few weeks after my eighteenth birthday, but while I'm technically an adult and should be capable of fending for myself, that means nothing in the world of the Carillo Family. I know better than to think my father actually wants me to come live with him for personal rather than practical reasons. He's never taken more than a fleeting interest in me my whole life, so why should now be any different? The simple reality is that I'm family, which makes us each other's burden.

I may not be his legitimate child, but there are still expectations of how I should behave, dress, and speak. I'm sure I'll be scolded for wearing sweats on the plane, only a little makeup, and having my wavy brown tresses pulled back in a messy bun, as if somehow any of these people are going to know who I am despite the fact that I'm the family's dirty little secret.

It would surprise me if anyone at Bainbridge University—the elite school I'm expected to attend a mere week and a half after moving across the country—even knows who I am. Getting through my final semester of high school so soon after my mother's death was hard enough, but the thought of starting at Bainbridge makes me nauseous if I dwell on it for too long.

At least it's given me something to dread besides this meeting.

After checking my phone to make sure I didn't miss any texts warning that he'd be late, I duck into the bathroom and freshen up. Splashing my face with cold water at the sink helps a little with the anxiety attack I can already feel coming on. My therapist insisted it would get better with time, but ever since the funeral, it seems like they're just getting worse.

It starts with feeling hot and cold spots all over my body, and a tightness in my chest that makes it impossible to take a full breath. My impulse is to blame it all on leaving everything behind in Boulder, but the truth is, there really wasn't that much there to begin with. Keeping a distance from people has always been second nature, and after graduation, there wasn't any reason to stay.

Get it together, I tell myself, looking up at my reflection.

There are dark circles under my eyes from not being able to sleep at all last night, and the kid kicking the back of my seat on the plane ensured that wasn't restful either. My eyes are bloodshot, more red than green, and I definitely don't look like the mafia princess I'm supposed to be, even if Ihavebeen living in a tower my whole life. I even look a few shades paler than usual. I'm not a ginger like Mom was, but I certainly inherited the fair complexion.

Once I've done everything I can to my hair to make it not look like a bird's nest, I grab my luggage and head back out to the lobby to find it's cleared out considerably. But there's still no sign of Dad.

There is, however, a suspiciously dapper-looking fellow in a black suit and red tie holding a sign with my name on it.

What the hell?

I walk over to the guy, who immediately seems to recognize me, even though I don't know him from Adam.

"Ms. Amelia," he says in a strong Brooklyn drawl. I haven't heard that in a while, and it immediately reminds me of Dad even though this guy's a few years his junior.

"Hi," I say, trying to decide on a less awkward way of asking,Who the hell are you?"Um. I take it you work for my dad?"

"I'm Francis," he says, nodding to me. "He's running late, so he asked me to pick you up."

"Right," I murmur, trying not to sound as disappointed as I am. Not surprised, though. In retrospect, I don't know why I actually expected him to come get me himself.

Francis takes my bags and starts walking toward the exit. The strong, silent type, like all the mafiosos I've met so far have been. Not that that's a lot of them.

There's a fancy black car waiting for us at the curb, and it sticks out like a sore thumb for the fact that it's trying so hard to be nondescript. Francis opens the back door for me before loading my luggage into the trunk, and I can't help but snort at the rosary hanging from the rearview mirror. The priest at whichever parish the family frequents probably has an ulcer courtesy of the Carillos.

Francis gets in and starts driving without a word, which is good with me since I'm not really in a talking mood. At least until we've been on the road for fifteen solid minutes and the silence starts eating at me.

"So, how long have you been in the business?"

It seems like an innocuous question, but it earns a sideways glance from the stoic driver. "My whole life."

"Right."

I fidget with the ring dangling from a chain around my neck. It was my grandmother’s, then my Mom's, and it's just a bit too loose for me to wear on my finger without worrying about losing it. She started wearing it on a chain when she lost weight from the chemo, and I haven't taken it off since the day she gave it to me at the hospital.

I always coveted this ring as a little girl. It's a nice gold band set with a large ruby and two sapphires surrounding it, but it isn't an engagement ring or anything. Nonetheless, Mom always treated it like it was a priceless crown, and the fact that it came from my father was enough to make me see it that way, too.

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