Don't Mess with A Mafia Princess

My yearly bonus was fifteen thousand dollars and my boyfriend eagerly suggested we celebrate with a fancy dinner. I figured, why not? But when the bill came, my jaw nearly hit the floor—one hundred thousand dollars. Stunned, I pushed the receipt away, refusing to pay. It had to be a mistake or worse, a scam.

Before I could argue further, the restaurant manager strode over, his expression cold and menacing. Without hesitation, he ordered his staff to tie me up. "If you don't pay," he said, his voice dripping with malice, "you'll pay with your life."

My heart pounded, but as I took a closer look at the man barking orders, fury quickly replaced my fear. That face—I knew it well. Frankie Mancini. One of my dad's old underbosses.

Giovanni Fontana. My dad. A mafia boss with a reputation as brutal as it was legendary. But to me, he had been a doting dad who spoiled me relentlessly. When my mom divorced him, I cut all ties, sick of the violence, the endless chaos that came with his world. He had cried when I left, promising through sobs that he'd change, that he'd leave his criminal empire behind for me.

Yet here I was, years later, bound and furious, staring at one of his men. So much for turning over a new leaf. Now they had gone too far—they'd kidnapped me. And I wasn't about to let them get away with it.

***

"Trying to dine and dash? Do you even know whose turf this is?" A man growled, his voice low and menacing, like a wolf ready to tear into its prey. He stood with a menacing posture, shoulders squared and fists clenched at his sides. The dim overhead lights reflected off the dark marble floor, casting long shadows across the opulent restaurant. Everything gleamed—gold-plated decor, crystal chandeliers—but beneath the luxury was an air of danger, a trap disguised as glamour.

A group of thugs surrounded me, their eyes cold, predatory. One leaned in close, the edge of a cleaver brushing against my shoulder with an almost playful precision, as if testing the blade's sharpness. I stiffened, trying to suppress the shiver running down my spine, but fear clamped down hard, making it difficult to breathe. My mind raced. Was this some kind of extortion? No wonder four dishes and a bottle of wine had cost a hundred thousand dollars!

Taking a shaky breath to steady my voice, I asked, as calmly as I could, "Where's my boyfriend? Where did he go?" My words trembled slightly, betraying my attempt at composure.

If not for Vincent, who had insisted on dining at this place, I would never have set foot in such an out-of-the-way spot. Sure, the restaurant looked luxurious—plush red velvet chairs, tables covered in pristine white cloths and a private ambiance that screamed exclusivity—but nothing about it had seemed suspicious at first glance. I thought my fifteen-thousand-dollar bonus would more than cover the bill. I didn't expect this.

At the mention of Vincent, one of the thugs sneered, a nasty smirk curling on his lips. "Looking for him? Useless. He's the one who told us to tie you up!"

"Said you were an easy mark, too—worth not just a hundred thousand dollars but a million!" another added with a mocking laugh. "Turns out he was wrong. What bad luck!"

Shock hit me like a slap in the face. Vincent had set me up. The man I trusted had lured me into a trap, then vanished without a trace. My heart clenched in a mix of betrayal and disbelief, but I didn't have time to dwell on it.

"If we can't get the money, we'll just sell you to a massage parlor to make up the difference!" one thug sneered, his tone dripping with crude amusement.

At the mention of a massage parlor, panic surged through me, breaking through the shock. I yelled, struggling against the ropes binding my wrists, "No! This is kidnapping and extortion! You can't do this! Let me go!"

The thug closest to me laughed, a cruel, rasping sound like nails on a chalkboard. "Let you go? If you don't want to be sold there, fine. Pay up. Otherwise, I've got plenty of alternatives." He leaned in, grabbing me by the neck with a vice-like grip. His fingers pressed painfully into my skin, cutting off my air as he shoved my head into a nearby water tank.

Cold water enveloped my face, filling my nose and mouth. My lungs burned as I thrashed, desperate for air. Just as I thought I might black out, he yanked me back up and I gasped, coughing violently, my chest heaving for breath.

"I'll pay!" I spluttered, voice hoarse. "But I don't have that much right now. Let me make a call—I can get someone to bring the money."

I wasn't lying. Most of my savings were with my mom. All I had in my account was the fifteen-thousand-dollar bonus and that was nowhere near enough. Even if they killed me, I couldn't produce a hundred thousand dollars out of thin air.

Before I could say more, a burly man with a thick beard stepped forward and slapped me across the face. The impact stung sharply and my head snapped to the side. "Dressed head to toe in designer brands and you expect us to believe you can't afford a hundred thousand dollars?" he sneered, his tone filled with contempt. "Who do you think you're fooling?"

He loomed over me, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "You want to call someone? Don't think I don't know what you're planning. If you dare to call the cops, you're done for!"

Another thug, visibly impatient, shifted his weight and muttered, "Boss, stop wasting time. Let's just send her to the massage parlor already. With her looks, she'll fetch more than a hundred grand!"

I squinted through the pain and the haze of panic at the man they called ‘boss.' Recognition hit me like a punch to the gut. Frankie Mancini. One of my dad's old underbosses.

Giovanni Fontana—my dad. A mafia boss feared by many, but to me, he had always been something else: a doting, overprotective dad who had showered me with love and gifts, despite the violent world he ruled.