Page 1 of Wicked Mafia Mistake
Wicked Mafia Mistake
One wrong text. One wicked fairytale night. And now the Syndicate's most dangerous fixer has a new obsession... me.
It started with a drunk text on my birthday. A raw, reckless message meant for my ex that landed in the wrong hands. The reply comes back darker and dirtier than anything my ex could ever write.
Come to my penthouse. No names. No panties. My rules. Penthouse 106. Let me make your darkest wishes come true.
I know that penthouse. I know who lives there. I've had his number saved for two years and never once been brave enough to use it.
Until tonight.
Massimo Santoro is sin in a tailored suit and twice my age. He has a voice that turns my spine to liquid, hands that command surrender, and a mouth that pulls confessions from my body I didn't know I was keeping.
He's also my father's best friend. And the man I've loved since I understood the word.
Like Cinderella, by the stroke of midnight, I'm ruined in ways I'll never forget.
I should have never dropped that wish in the Red Letter box on my way out the door.
He finds it. And the prince comes to collect. His terms? My body. My obedience. My signature on his marriage contract.
There's just one problem.
I'm promised to another man. Not just any man, but the heir to a rival mafia empire. A man Massimo would burn the city to destroy.
Now I'm trapped between two underworld kings. One owns my body and my wickedest secrets. The other thinks he owns my future.
But what happens when Cinderella stops waiting for the prince to save her?
What happens when she puts on her red heels, picks up a gun, and saves him instead?
One
Sloane
Twenty-six looks exactly like twenty-five, except lonelier.
The candles on the cupcake Onyx dropped off this morning have melted into the buttercream, two little pink wax puddles sinking into vanilla frosting that now tastes like birthday wishes nobody granted. The cupcake sits on my kitchen counter next to a bottle of pinot noir that started full three hours ago and is hovering at the halfway mark, the dark liquid catching the amber glow of the string lights I draped across my living room windows last winter and never took down.
My apartment smells like Chanel No. 5 and the vanilla candle burning on the steamer trunk I use as a coffee table. Warm, pretty, curated within an inch of its life. Crown molding traces the ceiling in thick, graceful arches that sold me on this place the second the landlord unlocked the door. The emerald sofa faces the windows where Chicago's evening skyline glitters below. My record player spins Patsy Cline on low because nothing pairs with self-pity quite like a dead woman singing about falling to pieces.
Fitting. Morbid. But fitting.
"Please. Somebody come and put me out of my misery." I grab the bottle of pinot and refill my glass.
My phone has been buzzing all day. Happy birthdays from people who remembered because social media told them to, a string of heart emojis from my assistant manager at the boutique, three separate invitations to go out tonight from friends who mean well and don't understand why I keep saying no.
I said no because the one person I wanted to hear from hasn't called.
The bastard never calls. Then again, he has no reason to call. Massimo Santoro does not sit around thinking about Harrison Whitmore's daughter on her birthday or any other day, because to him I am the ugly wallpaper. I'm nothing more than background noise at family dinners. The friend's kid who grew up when he wasn't paying attention and stayed invisible even after she sprouted boobs and pretty legs.
I knock back a mouthful of pinot and sweet baby Jesus that is good stuff. The tannins coat my tongue, dry and warm. The heat of it spreads through my chest, loosening the knot that's been sitting behind my sternum since I woke up this morning to an empty apartment and a single cupcake with a note that saidHappy Birthday, babe. You deserve the world. Stop settling for crumbs. Love, Onyx.
Onyx knows me too well. The woman survived a kidnapping, a virgin auction, and falling in love with a six-foot-four Russian who grows roses on his roof, and she still finds time to worry about my pathetic love life.
My phone buzzes again. Oh, it's a FaceTime. Speak of the devil.
I grab it off the sofa cushion and swipe to answer, already arranging my face into something that passes for festive.
