Italy – Matthew Sinclair’s Office, Milan, 2:13 AM
The city outside was silent, cloaked in velvet rain. The marble floors of Sinclair's penthouse office gleamed beneath the low flicker of dim sconces. Everything was polished. Still. Except him.
Matthew sat at the edge of his desk, shirt half-unbuttoned, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the only light in the room — a still image on his screen.
Her.
Angela Isabella Ferrari.
Codename: Velvet Fire.
He whispered her name like a sin. A prayer. A curse.
> She was supposed to seduce and kill me. I knew that. Hell, I was told.
But when I saw her in that red silk... with that steel behind her eyes... I realized I was the one being hunted. And I wanted it.
The surveillance photo didn’t capture the heat of her breath, the sharpness of her tongue, or the way her body had moved on his that night.
> She never meant to leave that bed alive. But neither did I.
He leaned back, ran his fingers through his hair.
> “She played me... or maybe we both played each other.”
The encrypted audio message he sent days after the Italy mission? No response.
He hadn’t expected one.
But now? She was back on the radar. Operative sightings in Boston. A glitch in a task force cam feed. A whisper from the Balkans: “The Queen’s alive.”
And tonight — the message he left her four months ago had finally been opened.
His screen pinged.
“Boston mission compromised. Lorenzo Ferrari in play.”
He froze.
> Her brother? Shit. They’re closing in.
He stood, threw on his coat, and lit a cigarette he never touched. The burn steadied his hand.
> “If she’s in danger... I’ll burn Boston down before I lose her again.”
---
Boston – Isabella’s Penthouse Office, 2:15 AM
She stood over a mahogany case, pulling out two things — her silencer and the black diamond necklace from Italy.
She hadn’t worn it since that night.
Since he kissed the back of her shoulder like it was sacred ground and whispered:
> “You were born to burn men like me.”
That was before she spared him.
Before he sent the message.
Before he lied.
She clipped the necklace around her throat, watching herself in the mirror. Same eyes. Colder now.
She walked to her office window, fingers pressing against the glass as Boston glittered like a constellation below.
> I trusted you... in a way I never should have.
She downed her whiskey, no ice, and turned to the red file on her desk. His file.
She tore it in half. Then burned it in the glass ashtray.
> “If you’re lying… you’re bleeding next.”
---
Split POV: Shared Memory – Months Ago
Her back arched against his chest.
His hand slid beneath her thigh, slow and claiming.
The silk sheets, the city lights, her gun on the nightstand — all forgotten.
> “If I die tonight,” he murmured against her neck, “at least I died fucking the devil.”
She laughed. Dark. Breathless.
> “You’d have to earn the privilege.”
---
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. ************...
