CHAPTER TWO

GIANNA

W ell, that was an out of the blue phone call. Mia Mancini–now Mia Barrett— just phoned me to invite me out for a drink.

Surely she can't be missing this world of crime and gangsters.

More than one person thinks she's a traitor—you never leave the mafia, so everyone says.

My father. That's who says it. Frank "The Fire" Baldassare.

The don.

So yes, I'm going to catch up with Mia and find out about her new life. I'm more than curious. We were, after all, both mafia princesses in the New York area growing up.

Her father let her fly the nest and live a normal life. I think because her mother died when she was younger, and he felt sympathetic.

It backfired on him.

She met Connor, and the billionaire proposed. The Mancini boss did not contest it, but he did lose his life at their wedding. The entire family did.

Except Mia.

The Mancini crime family has now been wiped out. Mine benefited from it—so Papa and Dante, my brother, say. I don't get told any more than that. It's the way it is in the Italian mafia.

So I'm curious. What does Mia want?

She now lives a cushy life free of the mafia and is married to her dream man. How many nights have I imagined some dashing prince with a machete coming to rescue me and take me away?

Too damn many.

He doesn't even have to be dashing, but I mean, if I'm going to be kidnapped from my glass tower, it would be nice if he was good looking.

And hot in bed.

I'm not lacking suitors, as they call them in eighteenth century England. I'm not. I'm in Scarsdale, New York, and the mafia princess of the Baldassare family.

Men want me to reach my father.

They think by fucking me it will get them a promotion and power in the family. I let them think that if they are hot enough—or I'm horny.

Hey, if they can use me, then I will use them.

Then I send them packing.

I have guards, so it just takes one word and they disappear. I assume just from the house...but one never knows in this world.

Don't judge.

I'm barely in control of my own life, so I can't decide what happens to them, or that these idiots end up here in the first place.

Meeting with Mia feels like it could open some doors to me getting out of this daily loop—also known as my own personal prison.

I don't wish my family to be slaughtered—never—I love my parents and brother. But if there was a way, I want to find out.

It's a dream.

I mean, if her husband is going to offer to kidnap me, change my identity, and then heli-drop me on a private island where I can read books, drink cocktails, and breed cats...

God, I fucking hope so.

I'd miss the shops and nightlife of Manhattan, though.

I let out a sigh. There is no escape, I know that. But I can live vicariously through her for just a few hours.

I drop my cup into the saucer and adjust my dark sunglasses as I lean back in my chair. The server at the café where I've just eaten lunch is nervous as he clears away my empty plate, asking if I would like anything else.

He knows who I am, and there are two not discreetly placed Baldassare gangsters—my guards—watching his every move.

I guess I'd be nervous too.

But it's annoying, if I'm honest.

"No, thank you," I reply, and then nod at James, my primary guard. He presses his finger to his ear and does whatever he does to get my car brought around.

In less than two minutes, my black bulletproof SUV will arrive with my driver, and James, along with whoever else is on my protective duty today, will move when I stand and then follow me.

Yawn.

I'm less complacent about all of it after seeing the footage of the slaughter at Mia and Connor's wedding. We were in Italy at the time for my grandmother's funeral. Her death saved our lives, ironically.

"See. This is why you must stop complaining about your security, Gianna." My father growled, pointing at the screen as we watched it for the fourth and fifth time.

It was horrifying.

I was worried about Mia and relieved when I heard she was alive.

"And maybe stop fucking them, too," Dante mumbled quietly, so only I could hear.

Or perhaps my father chose to ignore him. He gave up threatening to kill any boy that looked at me when I was twenty-one. Then again, perhaps he does, and I just don't know.

God, I hate that people have lost their lives because of me.

But is it? Is it me, or is it my father?

I am not proud to be a Baldassare and part of this world, but what choice do I have?

My brother and I were close growing up, but now he's in line to take over from my father. I'm honestly not sure if he wants it. He's loyal—what choice does he have, either—but he keeps his thoughts to himself.

Our relationship has changed since we became adults, and I miss it. Being a mafia brat is lonely. You don't know who you can trust. So we really don't trust anyone.

I stand and James moves in, the other guard closing the space as I walk across the pavement and opening the door to the vehicle so I can slide inside.

James slides inside beside me.

"Home," I say, not bothering to look up as I swipe open my phone. I want to see what Mia has been up to. She doesn't post on her Instagram all that often. Not since the shooting.

But there will be something.

Maybe Connor Barrett has a billionaire buddy looking for a mafia princess to marry.

When we arrive at the Baldassare mansion, the gates slowly open and we're waved through. The car pulls up outside the enormous monstrosity I grew up in and a false sense of freedom kicks in.

Here I can run free.

The insanely guarded prison I live in.

James climbs out and holds the door open. "I'm off duty. Call me if you need anything."

"I'm staying in for the rest of the day, thanks."

He's not bad for a gangster, but he's still a gangster.

The other faceless guard exits the car and I catch him looking.

Here we go.

"Gianna," he says as James wanders off. I walk inside the house and let him follow me.

"What is your name?" I ask, glancing at him briefly.

He's nice enough looking. A bit on the short side—five eleven, I'd say—but muscular. His hair is long on the top and swept up in a fashionable style.

"Freddy." He smirks.

I don't want him following me upstairs, so I stop at the sweeping staircase, my hand on the rail as my handbag hangs from my arm.

"What can I do for you, Freddy?"

Aside from putting in a good word to my father so you can become a big bad gangster instead of my security.

He slides his hands into his pockets, and I notice his dimples. I'm sure a lot of girls would find his smirk attractive, but at this point I'm so over this game.

"Wondered if you'd like to get a drink one night this week?" His head tilts and a part of me wants to slap him.

I want a guy to ask me out because he likes me, not because of my surname.

Or that my father is the don.

"You like swimming with the fishes, Freddy?" I ask, my eyes darting toward my father's office. Which is miles away, but he gets the hint and his smirk vanishes.

I shrug. "Ask my cousin, Maria. She's more your type."

Then I walk up the stairs, not bothering to wait for a reply.

Fuck, I'm over this.