mafia princess
Nadia Mikhalkov
115
"Nadia, you will marry Mr. Moretti." The words hung in the opulent study, not a question, but a decree. My father, a man whose will bent nations and whose shadow stretched across continents, had spoken. I simply met his gaze, my own eyes, usually described as unnervingly sharp, now carefully veiled. No tremor of shock, no flicker of protest. An Italian mafia boss. A crude, powerful man Mr. Moretti, whose reputation reeked of old money and newer blood. He needed inside intel: his operations, his networks, the legendary network of tunnels beneath his sprawling estate. My father’s final command echoed, a cold steel blade sharp against my resolve: "Make your father proud and get me the information I need, it's in your hands now."
Nineteen years old, yet an eternity had been spent perfecting the art of quiet destruction. My hands, currently poised elegantly on a silk dress, knew a hundred ways to end a life before the heartbeat registered its cessation. Among my people, the whispers carried my name with a mix of awe and trepidation; feared, yes, but more importantly, respected. Moretti, it seemed, viewed me as little more than a porcelain doll, a beautiful bauble to adorn his arm at lavish galas, a symbol of a strategic alliance, another conquest in his gilded cage. A pretty face, indeed. A trophy wife. He had no inkling of the wolf he was inviting into his carefully constructed labyrinth. And it was. Every whisper, every floorboard creak, every shadowed corridor, every secret breath he took would be cataloged, analyzed, and ultimately, used against him. Moretti was about to learn that true beauty lay not in the delicate curve of a neck, but in the precision of a silent kill, and that some cages, once opened, were impossible to close.
mafia princess
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