Faking My Death for the Mafia Don

Bianc

of the Rossi Family estate, a place I n

lt less like a home and

ster bedroom, I pulled a small duf

arments I had bough

same stifling air as this

e bedroom door latc

si stepped i

ack silk dress, her silver hai

l bag and one of her eyebrows li

screet holiday, Nora?" she

er of the bag, an

the dark pools of her irises. "No," I told her. "I am sever

t did n

not thre

sprawling house who had ever tre

after the Syndicate doctors had told

t the bone ma

influence had waned since Vincent became Don; her voice, once the

rgaret walked over to the e

, her voice softening. "The underworld shows little

said, my voice faltering with a pain I cou

owly, a flicker of

d in its duty to your honor

ckets of her dress and pulle

n the mattress

gold and blood diamonds," s

metal box, my hands

, shaking my head. "I will not o

my wrists, and pressed th

for your survival," she ins

ring of a burner phone cut throu

ating on th

ew a breath, and

led through the recei

pers have arrived at the

e background, a saccharine e

she was urging him. "Mak

t igno

neel and submit to my authority. If you beg properly," he added with a da

nk into the fine-grained wood, biting into the veneer until a shar

ice severed the last t

phone, my heart a hea

nt," I screamed into the recei

it against the carpeted floor. It landed with a muffled thud, th

l bag and tucked the

d me, Margaret's sigh was a prayer. Ahead, the world waited to exact its price fo