𝗙𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗩𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗮 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗲.
I never thought my world would crumble at the hands of a man like Alessandro Rossi-a 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 draped in silk suits and ruthlessness. One moment, I was Yasenia Fraga, daughter of the...
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"Keys, phone, wallet," I muttered to myself, rummaging through my handbag already late for work. My fingers brushed against the cold steel of my gun. I grimaced, pulling my hand back like I'd been burned.
God, how I hated guns.
Just the sight of it was enough to give me the shivers, let alone the implications that came with carrying it around. But I didn't have the luxury of leaving my protection at home. I was Yasenia Fraga after all, the only child of Galicia's most powerful Mafia Don. Like it or not, there were expectations that came with that name—expectations I couldn't shake off, no matter how many miles separated me from Spain.
I grew up in Vigo, Galicia, Spain, in the heart of my father's empire. It was a world of danger, hate, revenge, power, and blood. You always had to be on your guard. Always.
But Manhattan was different.
New York had none of my father's shadows, none of the suffocating expectations of what Yasenia Fraga should be. Here, I wasn't a Mafia princess, I was just a simple girl who loved books enough to open her own cozy little bookstore on 7th Street. I could breathe here. I could be free.
New York, for me, was liberation.
That freedom came with its own set of challenges, though. Even after three years of living in Manhattan, I hadn't completely shaken the instincts drilled into me from birth. The ability to feel eyes on me, the subtle shift in energy when someone was watching—it was second nature.
And now, I could feel it again.
I glanced over my shoulder and I immediately spotted the same black SUV parked a little too conveniently down the street. My stomach tightened, and my pulse quickened. That car had been following me for days now, and I wasn't imagining it. Someone was watching me, and they weren't doing a good job of hiding it.
Instinctively, my hand reached into my bag, making sure my gun was there. I hated it but unfortunately, I couldn't live without it.
The SUV pulled forward, rolling to a stop right in front of my bookstore. My breath hitched, but I forced myself to stay calm. I marched straight toward the car, my hand gripping the gun inside my bag, just in case.
"Excuse me! Why are you following me?" I demanded.
The man behind the wheel looked startled. He avoided my eyes, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered, clearly lying.
That's when it hit me. My father. This had his fingerprints all over it. He must've sent someone to watch me, like he always did. Overprotective didn't even begin to describe it.
