The Mafia Princess

Prologue

The air in the cramped apartment was thick, stale, tinged with the lingering scent of last night's arguments. Serafina Rossi kept her gaze fixed on the fraying carpet as her mother, Adriana, spoke in clipped, acidic tones from across the table. Serafina had learned early in life that it was best to stay silent, to keep her eyes down and her mouth shut.

"Don't sit there looking so pathetic," her mother sneered. "You know, you're lucky we kept you at all. Your father wanted nothing to do with you. If it were up to him, you'd have been someone else's problem."

The words stung, but Serafina had heard them so many times they'd lost some of their bite. Still, there were nights when she'd lie awake and let herself believe the lie—imagine a father who had never wanted her, a man who chose power and wealth over his own child.

Outside, a car door slammed. Her stepfather, Marco, was home. She knew better than to stay in the kitchen now. As quickly and quietly as she could, she retreated to her room, the only safe place in the apartment, and shut the door behind her. Her heart beat faster, and she braced herself as she heard her mother's sharp voice rising once more, punctuated by Marco's heavy footsteps.

In the dim light of her room, Serafina sat on the edge of her bed, clutching the old photograph she'd kept hidden under her mattress. It was faded and wrinkled, and she didn't know who had taken it, but it was the only image she had of him—her real father. Even though her mother's voice rang in her ears, telling her how worthless she was, something in Serafina clung to this small token of her past. She imagined what he might have been like—strong, kind, nothing like Marco. A father who would have protected her, maybe even loved her.

But Adriana's words never let her forget: He didn't want you. He left you behind without a second thought.

Serafina ran her thumb along the photograph's worn edges and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shake the feeling of hollowness that her mother's words left inside her. She tried to imagine a life far away from here—a life where she could be someone else, someone worth caring for. She tried to imagine a father who'd want her, maybe even love her, but the thought felt foolish, childish.

This is your life, Serafina, she told herself, just like she did every day. You don't get to dream.

Yet somewhere deep within her, a spark of hope remained—one that refused to go out, no matter how much her mother tried to extinguish it. It was that tiny ember, a stubborn glimmer in her heart, that whispered that maybe there was more to her story than she had been told.

She just had no idea how right she was.