From Boston to Florence
The night before, she stood at the edge of the balcony of her Boston villa, the Dobermann and German Shepherd at her feet, the cold wind slicing across her cheekbones like a warning. Gigi had just handed her the file — thick, classified, stamped red with death.
Target: Matthew Theodore Sinclair
Location: Florence, Italy
Priority: Eliminate. No loose ends.
She didn’t blink. She just poured herself a whiskey, set the glass down beside her Glock, and opened the first page.
That night, she barely slept. Only the quiet presence of Enry and William grounding her enough not to fall back into old nightmares. Only the sound of the dogs breathing beside her keeping her from breaking.
By morning, she was on a jet.
---
Florence, Italy — 9:02 PM
The air was warm with the scent of cigarettes, sweat, and old money.
Isabella stepped out of the black Maserati like sin incarnate. Her heels clicked against the marble, sharp and slow. Her dress was black silk — slashed high at the thigh, dipped low at the spine. The kind of dress no one forgot. The kind of woman no one survived.
This was not a social call.
This was a kill order wrapped in perfume and red lipstick.
She walked into the private rooftop bar overlooking the Duomo. Exclusive. Expensive. Blood-soaked deals wrapped in champagne.
And there he was.
Matthew Theodore Sinclair.
British-Italian. Arms dealer. Untouchable.
Too clean. Too polished. Too dangerous.
And too fucking beautiful for someone marked for death.
He was already watching her. Like he expected her.
“Not from around here,” he said when she stopped at the bar beside him. His voice: velvet and threat. British with Italian fire bleeding through.
“Neither are you,” she replied, eyes cold, heart quieter than usual.
He studied her. Slowly. Like he was reading a book in a language only he understood.
“You look like someone who wins.”
She tilted her head. “Only when I’m bored.”
He smiled. Not charming. Deadly.
“To secrets,” he said, raising his glass.
“To lies,” she answered, touching hers to his.
And when they drank, everything changed.
Because she wasn’t going to kill him.
And she didn’t know if it was instinct, weakness, or something worse...
...but she suddenly knew he wasn’t going to let her walk away alive either.
---
Florence — Her Rules
The rooftop bar began to fade behind them like a memory that already knew it wouldn't survive the night.
She didn’t need to ask. He followed.
The black car waited — same one she arrived in.
She slid into the backseat like smoke. He didn’t hesitate.
Of course he didn’t. Men like him never did.
"Hotel?" he asked, eyes steady, lips curled.
She turned her face toward the window.
“Penthouse. Mine.”
YOU ARE READING
MAFIA QUEEN
Short StoryAfter the 3 sentries she is born, the only girl in the family. But they are not the ordinary people they are famous Italian Mafia. THE FERRARI FAMILY But they lost her because of the work they are in and because of their reputation. ************...
