Page 7 of Forbidden Mobster's Daughter

I stare at Sienna, and for a moment, get lost in her hazel eyes.

Now I see why this annoying fleeting compassion hits me when she’s around. Because in many ways… I was once in her shoes. I’ve been forced into a life I didn’t want. I’d like to think I’ve become a better person, that I’ve learned my lesson, but throwing her to the wolves is my ticket out.

And that’s fucking unfair to her.

A woman who lost her mom at a young age was sent away for her entire life and had to deal with a self-absorbed father who never cared about her wishes.

“Sienna,” I call her like I’m prescribing the lifesaving drug for a rare illness.

“What?”

I look around to ensure the flight attendant is far away and can’t hear. “I’ve said earlier. My job is to get you to the altar. After you get married, you’re free to think outside the box,” I say, the words pouring out of me, betraying my common sense. This tip alone could fuck me over, particularly if she tattles to her father.

She leans closer. “What do you mean?”

I curse myself inwardly. I know I’ll regret it, but my heart pumps in my chest. I feel more alive than I have in the longest time. “You can do whatever. Think about a plan.”

“Oh. A plan?”

“Yeah. Maybe Francesco will overdose sooner than expected.” He probably will if the rumors I hear about him are true. Even in prison, he manages to get access to drugs and uses them with no problem. Costs him a lot more, yes, but money isn’t an issue.

She widens her eyes. “I can’t… kill him.”

Fuck, what am I doing? I’m so pathetically desperate to give this girl an ounce of hope that I just implied she should kill her soon-to-be husband. Hell, I’d do it for her if I weren’t leaving this life behind. I need to think clearly before making this into a bigger mess than it already is. “I’m not telling you to kill him. All I’m saying is... don’t think your life is over because you need to marry him. Don’t give up. Sometimes you have to make people believe you’re going along to get along, then find the right opportunity… and sweep the rug from under them.”

“The right opportunity.”

“Yes.”

She’ll possibly have access to a lot of information about Francesco and his family. Maybe she’ll be braver than me and make the right choice. Go to the police, not fold like a coward. But I have to restrain myself. I can’t give her a play-by-play of what she needs to do and how. I can’t jeopardize my last month and my mom’s freedom.Myfreedom.

She stares at me silently, then drums her fingers on her knees. “I know exactly what you mean.”

She flashes me a coy smile, and my heart expands in my chest. Fast learner. Good. She’ll need all her wits to survive in this world.

4

Sienna

I look at Matteo,who’s standing behind me, then at the stone exterior of the massive home where I was raised. My stomach sinks even as a warm nostalgia flutters over my chest. The last time I visited was over four years ago. I’m about to knock on the door when it’s swung open before I get the chance.

“Sienna. Welcome home. We’ve been waiting for you,” says Clara, the housekeeper who’s worked for my father for the last two decades. She’s a professional woman in her sixties with a flawless coif and a kind yet neutral expression. “How was the flight?” she asks, with a smile that reaches her dark green eyes.

She’s always been perfectly nice to me, but not too close.

Clara knows who signs her paychecks. And she knows it’s best to keep some emotional distance from me.

“Unexpected but good. Not a lot of turbulence,” I say, irony cracking through my voice. I appreciate her professionalism, but does she really expect me to talk about the weather next? I look over to Matteo, who’s scrolling through his phone.

“Excellent.” She claps her hands. “Your father is in the library.”

I stride through the foyer and don’t feel Matteo’s presence behind me. Instead, I hear his small talk with Clara. I called Lisa after I landed and explained to her that due to my father’s unexpected health issues, I’d moved back to Chicago. She thought it strange but didn’t ask too many questions and mainly offered her support. I sigh.

Walking through the foyer and long hallways leading to the living room feels like stepping back in time. As a child, I wore my mother’s swanky high heels several times and strutted across the hardwood floors, enjoying the clunking sound they made. Sometimes, I’d trip and fall and chuckle on the floor, looking up at the ornate, incredibly high ceilings, fascinated. And, of course, I’d secretly run my fingers along the many statues my father had displayed throughout the house.

My childhood home is a zoo of bronze statues.

I look at it now, and not much has changed.

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