I clasped the delicate lace of my bridal gown tightly. The white fabric, meant to symbolize purity, enshrouded me like a funerary veil, suffocating the remnants of my former freedom. I had never imagined my life would lead here, to this luxurious pr...
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"Keys, phone, wallet," I recited, rummaging through my handbag, already late for work. Just as I thought I had everything, my hand brushed against the cold steel of my gun. A grimace instantly twisted my features.
God, how I loathed guns.
Just the feel of the cold metal 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 Moreno after all - the only child of Galicia's most powerful Mafia Don.
I grew up in Vigo, Galicia, Spain, in the throbbing heart of my father's empire. It was a world of danger, deceit, hate, revenge, power, and blood. You always had to be on your guard. Always.
But Manhattan? Manhattan was different.
New York had none of my father's shadows, none of the suffocating expectations of what Yasenia Moreno should be. Here, I could throw the name Moreno to the wind and just be Yasenia-a simple girl who loved books enough to own a cozy little bookstore on 7th Street.
New York, for me, was liberation.
Growing up with the kind of lifestyle that I did, I had become remarkably attuned to the sense of being followed, even in a crowd. But it had been more than three years since I left that life behind and moved to New York to start anew. Yet, when I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, I knew something was off. My instincts kicked in, and I spun around, locking eyes with the same black SUV that had been tailing me for days. My spine turned to ice, heart pounding erratically. There was no mistaking it-whoever was in that car meant trouble. Without missing a beat, I placed my hand on my purse, feeling the familiar weight of my gun inside.
I had no idea who was inside that SUV, but I was about to find out. As it pulled up in front of my bookstore, I took a deep breath and marched straight toward it. "Excuse me! Why are you following me?" I demanded, throwing caution to the wind. The man behind the wheel looked nervous, avoiding my gaze and stumbling over his words.
"Did my father send you?" The thought struck me suddenly. My father often sent men to watch over me, even after I'd told him countless times not to.
Avoiding eye contact, he mumbled a response, but his phone rang, distracting him. Seizing the moment, I snatched the phone, knowing exactly who the caller might be. "Papa, is that you?" I asked, dread building within me.
"Hola mi princesita, (hello my little princess)" my father's warm voice eased momentarily through the line, but his words froze me in place. I had been expecting this moment, but reality hit differently.
"Please stop trying to protect me! I don't need your men shadowing my every move. I'm managing just fine without all this chaos!"
