Gianna
If you asked me how I ended up in a mafia family, I wouldn't really have a good answer. I mean, I was born into it, yes – but I never really fit into it. Not the way my cousins did, with their sharp eyes and sharper tongues. Not like the men in our world, who walked around with heavy rings and heavier secrets.
I was the soft one. The one who baked cookies and believed people were mostly good. The one who still gasped at curse words and cried during sad commercials. I liked fluffy socks, lemon tea, and painting my nails pink. And I happen to be Gianna Moretti, the niece of one of the most powerful mafia bosses in New York.
Go figure.
I tugged down the hem of my cardigan as I walked into the café my friends and I always met at – small, warm, and so not mafia-approved. It smelled like vanilla and cinnamon and made me feel safe. I needed that. I always needed that.
"Oh thank God," Lena said, waving me over to our usual table. "I thought you got lost again."
"I took a wrong turn and ended up in a furniture store," I admitted, cheeks heating as I slid into the booth. "But they had the cutest armchairs, so it wasn't a total disaster."
Lena shook her head, laughing. "You're too pure for this city."
Lena D'Angelo.
She's... how do I even begin? She's like if a dark, deadpan, slightly intimidating person and a highly polished, fashion-forward perfectionist had a cigarette together and decided to raise a switchblade-wielding daughter with trust issues and impeccable taste.
She is my terrifying fashion fairy godmother.
We met when I bulldozed a table of poetry books at a pop-up shop and apologized like I was trying to win an Oscar for Best Nervous Breakdown. She laughed, called me "the sweetest honeycake," and has been threatening to fight people on my behalf ever since.
She's 24, a junior editor at this underground fashion magazine no one's ever heard of but somehow everyone cool reads, and she's an aspiring stylist with a tailoring obsession. She tailors my clothes like she's avenging something. She once told me, "You don't have to shrink to deserve space," and I cried so hard she had to re-do my eyeliner. We became the best of friends then.
Lena has known about the mafia world long before she met me. Even though she has no ties to any familia, she has a history of association with someone deeply involved. Her ex "disappeared." He worked for a rival crime family. Emphasis on worked. Past tense. He vanished under mysterious circumstances, and Lena never talks about it. She's too smart for that. She just got colder. Sharper. Like, she carried a knife in her purse before, but after him I'm pretty sure there's maybe a hit list in her Notes app, right under a pretty dark quote.
She's blunt, black-hearted, and scares the hell out of me sometimes. But I love her. And if anyone tries to mess with me? Well… good luck.
Lena will probably already be sharpening something to stab.
"Too pure for the family, more like," Sara said, sipping her iced latte. "You know what your uncle does, right? Like, you know?"
"I know he's… busy," I said, smiling nervously as I took my seat before them. "And he has a lot of meetings that involve men in suits and sometimes –"
"Sweetheart," Sara said gently, resting her hand over mine, "your uncle doesn't run a car dealership."
Sara El-Amin is what happens when a TED Talk and a rom-com walk into a bar and order a lavender oat milk latte.
I met Sara when I was fourteen, at a family Fourth of July party gone wrong – her cousin dated my cousin (bad choice), red wine was spilled, possibly a gun was nearby. I helped her clean her dress and made her laugh so hard she forgot we were surrounded by criminals. It was instant friendship.
Sara is a boutique publicist by day, podcast host by night – her show is called Blurred Lines, where she breaks down romance tropes like a sparkly academic with trust issues. She once pitched a series on "mafia princess trauma." I almost fell off my stool laughing. She wasn't totally joking.
Much like Lena, Sara's not part of the mafia life either. But she watches it like a true-crime fangirl with boundaries. She always knows what's going down, she just refuses to get blood on her platforms.
She's glitter, brains, and caffeine with a side of don't test me. I adore her. And she will absolutely solve my murder if it comes to that.
"He runs this city," Sara continued, "And that means—"
"I don't want to know," I cut in quickly. "The less I know, the less I lie if anyone ever asks me anything."
The truth was, I did know. I wasn't stupid. But I'd spent most of my life wrapped in the cotton-candy version of the truth, and no one ever tried too hard to pull me out of it. I was soft, I was sheltered, and apparently, that made me someone worth protecting.
It also made me someone a man like Dominic Russo probably hated on sight.
"Speaking of dark and deadly," Lena said, eyes flicking toward the window. "Guess who's here."
I turned my head – and there he was.
Dominic.
He stepped out of a sleek black car like he was stepping out of a movie scene. Tall, suited in black, and so cold-looking I was surprised the air around him didn't frost over. His expression was unreadable, all sharp lines and menace. He didn't smile. I don't think he ever smiled.
I swallowed hard. "He's... intimidating."
"That's one word for it," Sara muttered. "He kills people, Gigi. Like, actually."
I swallowed. "I would like to believe he doesn't."
Lena gave me a look. "Honey, he's your uncle's enforcer. He's practically the Grim Reaper with better suits."
I looked back at him. He hadn't even glanced our way. He was talking to someone – no, ordering them around. People listened to Dominic. They scrambled to please him. He was powerful, yes, but it was more than that. He had this presence, this cold magnetism that made your skin tingle and your heart beat faster for all the wrong reasons.
And for some reason… my heart skipped just a little too fast when he finally looked up – and his eyes met mine.
It was just for a second. A flicker of eye contact through the café window. But it was enough to make me freeze, lips parted, breath caught.
His eyes didn't soften. They didn't warm. They just… held me.
And then he looked away.
Like I was nothing.
I blinked fast, heart thudding. "He looked at me."
"Yeah," Lena said slowly. "And somehow, I think you're the only girl he's looked at for more than two seconds in years."
"What do you mean?" I asked, genuinely confused.
Sara leaned forward. "Gianna… Dominic Russo doesn't look at anyone. He doesn't see people. He crushes them."
I looked back at where he'd been, but he was already gone.
"Maybe he thought I was someone else," I murmured, frowning.
But deep down… something told me that he recognized exactly who I was. And maybe, just maybe…
He was going to be a problem.