y-second birthday and the supposed start of our life together, slipped from my fingers
ide the private room, the sound swallowed by the lo
pte
phin
he Shadow" Mancini s
as the daughter of his father's most trusted Capo, L
A piece of scaffolding, heavy and lethal, broke loose above me. Da
iron on my arm, just as the metal
a silver coin into my trembling hands. It was stamped with the Mancini crest. A silent, posse
bored than anything else, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "When you're twenty-two and done with school," he'd said, his vo
's co
bind our families. I built my entire life around it. I went to Pratt Institute in New
t logo for his new legitimate front, a sleek, modern emblem that was both beautiful and intim
de his private room
oice was laced with irritation. "Th
n, Don?" Vito, his
gement. A baby. That should be enough to scare the little Moretti gi
abella Rossi. An outsider, a social climber. "D
. The logo, my offering, lay forgotten at my feet. Th
ching someone else. I pushed through the heavy doors of the club and out into the New
e. Then my brother, Leo. I silenc
anted to cut me out. So I would