The Don and His Mafia Princess: Book Two of The Costanzo Series - Standalone

CHAPTER 4

I step out of the mall, my arms laden with shopping bags, a mix of designer labels and high-end boutique purchases. The sun is setting, casting a warm glow over the parking lot as I make my way to my car. It's been weeks since our return from Sicily. I had hoped that my father would finally recognize my potential and give me more responsibilities at the office, especially since I didn't cause any trouble for Santiago during our time there. However, much to my dismay, nothing has changed. It is as if my efforts and achievements have gone unnoticed, leaving me feeling invisible and undervalued.

In an attempt to distract myself from the gnawing sense of disappointment, I decided to spend the day indulging in a shopping spree, using my father's money. I know that the amount I spend won't even make a dent in his vast fortune, but a part of me hopes that the constant pings of the transactions will serve as a reminder of my existence. It is a petty move, driven by a desire to be acknowledged and to inflict a small measure of pain on my father for his lack of recognition.

It isn't as if I am clamoring to be inducted into the shadowy folds of our family's mafia dealings. No, my aspirations are somewhat more mundane, yet no less significant. I long to be a part of the legitimate facade we present to the world, the construction company that serves as the cornerstone of our empire. This company, our alibi to the government's prying eyes, is more than just a front. We are creators and builders of dreams in the form of houses, hotels, and anything else one could imagine. Our craftsmanship dots the landscape across the United States, from the humble abode to the grandeur of luxury hotels. Among our latest ventures is the renovation of the Costanzo Hotel, a project that symbolizes the breadth of our influence and the depth of our ambition.

This construction empire is a legacy I yearn to be a part of—not for the power it wields but for the opportunity to build something tangible, something real. Yet, as the city lights blur past my window on the ride home, I can't help but feel like an outsider looking in, yearning for a place within my own family, within my own legacy.

I glide the car into its familiar spot in the garage, the engine's purr dying down as I cut the ignition. The garage of our mansion is expansive, with space for multiple vehicles and rows of gleaming luxury cars. Tools are neatly organized on the pegboard walls, and shelves are lined with paint cans and gardening supplies. Stepping out into the quiet, I make my way into the house, the air of the familiar space wrapping around me like a well-worn cloak. The grand foyer greets me with its marble floors and sweeping staircase, adorned with ornate railings and intricate carvings. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the opulent surroundings. I ascend the stairs to my room, the carpet beneath my feet plush and comforting. Upon entering, I shed my clothes, a heap of fabric forming on the floor, and head to the bathroom to shower.

The shower's embrace is a cascade of warmth, the steam filling the room as I let the water run. The tiles are cool against my skin as I step in, and the sound of the running water echoes softly against the marble walls. I close my eyes, letting the heat seep into my muscles, washing away the veneer of retail therapy and the lingering frustration that clings to my skin. I let the water run, hoping it might also rinse away the disappointment that seems to have taken up permanent residence in my chest.

Refreshed and dressed but not quite rejuvenated, I tread lightly down the stairs to the dining room, where the familiar tableau of family dinner awaits.

Mom's voice, ever gentle, cuts through the tension I carry. "Hello, Honey, how was your day?"

I lean in for a brief, affectionate peck on her cheek before taking my seat. "Good," I reply, the word a half-truth.

Santiago playfully raises an eyebrow and asks, " What did you do all day, shopping??" I respond with an eye roll, knowing he's fully aware of my shopping escapade from seeing me laden with bags. Glancing toward Dad, I observe his lack of reprimand or even a hint of disapproval regarding my day of indulgence at the mall. He remains absorbed in his meal, meticulously cutting into his steak as if my existence is as insignificant as the peas on his plate.