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I jumped back. The hot gush is fierce and it’s horribly messy, and it’s hard to move while his hands grip tight on my throat. He trembled and shuddered but he would not let go. Not for a long time.
The dog crouched outside and fell silent.
It’s funny how I knew when it was over, because the cane corso started up a low, rhythmic howl. They’re a great breed for guard dogs, but Crespi trained him by the dumb ignorant brute method.
I don’t mean the dog was a dumb brute — he’s just a dog, doing the best he knows how. No, he trained him by the method a dumb brute would use.
So, I did what I was told, but then I took it a bit farther. Like I always do.
I didn’t even get to show Gianni the photograph.
CHAPTER TWO
So, first, I need you to remember, I’m not your average mafia princess.
For one thing, you don’t see them standing in the shadows with their hands dripping in blood.
All my life, I’ve seen power all around me. Everywhere I look. I see it, but I can’t even touch it. Only the men can have it. That’s for a boy-child only.
Daddy has power. Even my idiot younger brothers have power. All the families above us have gushing torrents of power.
I’m tired of being close to power or being related to men with power. Seeing, feeling, and smelling power everywhere I go, never having any of my own makes my gut burn and my skin prickle hot with anger and frustration. They have no more right to it than I do.
I want it for me. Myself.
I don’t want to be married to power or to have access to it through a man. I want my own. To dress in it. Be wrapped and surrounded by it. Feel its glow all the way through me and let it flow over me and. Bathe, swim, shower, splash and dance in it. I want to wear power like jewels, like a crown. And not someone else’s power that they let me use.
Mine. My own.
And it’s the one thing I can never get. No matter what I do.
That’s what the rules all say.
Well, rules are made for breaking.
CHAPTER THREE
The two men, the sons who are being brought to me now, will get a quick glance into this room. That ought to get their attention.
That and the hot blood dripping from my hands.
Daddy sent me to do his dirty work. As always. And I took it a little too far. As always. So all I’ll get from Daddy is blame, and I have no power to do anything about it.
Sometimes I need men to take me seriously, and it can be a challenge.
I’m curvy and blonde, and I’m not tall. I know my way around French couture as well as Italian Emporia, Rodeo Drive celeb style and New York stealth wealth. I know how to power dress, but nearly all the men in the Life are blind to the language of style.
All that a woman’s clothes and hair ever tell them is some of the ways they might want to fuck her.
If there’s any fucking to be done, the two Crespi sons will be in the receiving positions.
I need this business finished. That disgusting creep’s two sons are being brought in to me, and I’m already thinking about how angry Daddy is going to be, and how he will punish me for what I just did.
My life is a golden trap. A mafia princess’ jeweled cage, where you can have a lot, a hell of a lot; money, clothes, cars, homes, pools. Five-star luxury everywhere. But then you run into a hard line.
In the Life, I will never be independent. A man will have a leash on me forever. Now, it’s Daddy holding the leash. The only way I can get off that will be when Daddy hands it to a husband.
Falling in love? Forget it. Mafia princesses are married by arrangement, like the princesses in old Europe.
