Swapped at Birth, Claimed by the Mafia King

mafia princess, while I was the secret daughter k

boiling espresso from sheer exhaustion, my

nto a plaster wall just to make su

they were selling me as a cheap bride to an old C

who had already collected life

f the syndicate guests, but gave me a ve

age closet to wait for my doom, my b

ood hated me so deeply, casting me to a mur

slowly at the hands of a monster w

rembling fingers pulled out a mysteriou

dialing Dante Falcone, th

ruly looki

praying he would claim me bef

pte

phin

oss, an old wolf who had already collected life insurance on three dead wives. I had nowhere to run and no one to turn to-exce

belly. The air smelled of bleach and old dust. I drew my knees to my chest, a futi

. I stared at it, the throbbing pain dragging my mind back

e for my sister, Isabella. Isabella was the prized mafia princess; she wore haute couture and smiled with practiced perfection. I, by

h Elena dragging me to the basement, forcing my hands into a basin of bloody, wine-stained water. I scrubbed until four in

wim and soften. Elena ordered me to serve espresso to the dangerous men sitting on our velvet sofas. My

ival instinct was stronger than the pain. I bit my tongue, bowed my head, and

en she saw Isabella was clean, Elena turned a vicious glare on me. Her palm struck my should

ing they would just sell me as a cheap bride to the Chicago boss to pay off Marco's gambling debts.

cheap, expired ointment I kept hidden under my mattress. No tears came

accepted the plain truth: my own blood w

against something hard. It was a heavy black-and-gold token attached to a cheap burner phone-the sa

to the dim light sli

I am looking for a girl named Se

I stared at the screen of the phone. There was only one number saved

who had survived a bloody succession war as a teenager and returned to slaughter everyone who betray

w one thing: my hand throbbed, and the memory of Elena shoving me flashed in my mind. Nothing could be worse than

d the ca

ricted as if stuffed with dry cotton; the simple act of s

onne

o a profound stillness-a heavy, airless sil

e out as a fractured whisper.

e through the speaker, low and resonant,

me you

y eyes. "S

abruptly cut off. A few seconds of static-filled quiet passed, no longer

nded softly. "Don't hang up

. But as I clutched the phone to my ear, my burned hand trembling in my lap,

was no g