1. Bibiana
Mafia daughters are never born free. They’re bargained, adorned, paraded, pledged—bartered to whichever man will fortify the famiglia. I learned that truth before I mastered the delicate hold of a champagne flute.
“ Smile when spoken to. Lower your gaze during business. Never interrupt. Never shame the family.” Those were Papa’s iron rules. He made one deadly exception: he taught me to fire a gun.
The dining room glowed like a gilded trap. Crystal chandeliers dripped light over the long mahogany table. White candles cast serrated shadows from their silver holders. Red wine rippled in my glass—untouched. I never drank among men whose eyes hunted too eagerly.
Papa presided at the head of the table, laughing with Don Bellandi as though this were just another supper—as though two armed guards crouching by every door were ordinary. As though every ring-clad finger around us didn’t drip with blood. As though I, in my black silk dress, weren’t the centerpiece of tonight’s deal.
Luca Mazzanti: boss, patriarch, king—titles men used to keep breathing. To me, he’d been “ Papa” as a child. Now he was “ Father,” a colder word for an even colder man.
“She’s exquisite,” Don Bellandi rumbled, his gaze dragging over me like a blade. Beauty in our world was a weapon—admired, then seized.
“My daughter is well raised,” Father replied. Not loved. Not protected. Raised—like livestock, like a blade honed to kill, like an investment.
Bellandi’s lips curved. “My son would make an excellent husband.”
Rocco Bellandi Jr. sat three chairs down—hands soft as silk, lips cruel as razors. He’d spent the entire meal staring at my throat. I’d spent every second mapping the trajectory of the bullet I’d fire first: knee, then palm. Gentle hands scream the loudest when severed.
I lifted my glass in a small, polite smile. Empty.
Rocco beamed, certain he’d claimed his prize. Poor fool.
Across the table, my brother Matteo flicked me a silent warning: Behave. I blinked slowly. I’m on it.
He bit his lip. He sensed the storm coiled behind my calm.
Clink—Papa’s knife tapped his wine glass. Instantly the room stilled. Every head snapped to him.
“My daughter has reached an age where alliances must be weighed carefully,” he said. There it was: the real course of tonight’s feast—me.
My breath steadied: four counts in, four counts out. A sniper’s breath hidden behind a princess’s smile.
“Bibiana understands her duty,” Father announced.
Duty—such a pretty cage.
Rocco leaned back. “A good wife must obey.”
My fingers tightened around the stem, just enough to imagine it snapping.
Papa shot me a glance—one of countless warnings. None feared my hands.
I met Rocco’s stare with a sweeter smile. “Does a good wife obey… or does she simply survive?”
Silence fractured the table.
Rocco’s smile wavered. “Excuse me?”
“A wife who obeys—does she understand obedience or merely survival?”
His grin collapsed. Father’s jaw clenched. Matteo’s fingers twisted in his lap.
“Spirited,” Rocco muttered, as though the word could tame me.
“Bibiana knows silence,” Father said stiffly.
“Of course,” I replied, looking right at him. A lie and a half.
The candles flickered. For a heartbeat, none dared speak. Then Bellandi’s forced laugh shattered the hush. Dinner resumed: wine flowed, deals were carved in whispers, alliances sealed over silver forks and dead beasts.
I remained a picture of compliance—silk and smiles. My deadliest disguise. Wigs, aliases, safehouses—no camouflage as lethal as this. Men saw the mafia princess; they never glimpsed the crosshairs.
After dinner I excused myself before dessert. Father frowned but stayed silent. Public image outweighed private control—another rule I knew how to wield.
The hallway was an oasis of cool hush. Two guards stood by the stairs—Mazzanti men loyal to Papa, not to me.
“Is my mother awake?” I asked.
One guard’s eyes flicked away. “No, signorina. The doctor insists on rest.”
Of course he did. Serafina Mazzanti once stopped hearts with her beauty. Now she was a ghost behind locked doors and medicine bottles.
I slipped up to the second floor—not to my room, but to the linen closet beside my mother’s music room. The cameras never caught it—a blind spot since I was sixteen. My father’s men called it oversight; I called it opportunity.
Behind stacked sheets, I pressed a hidden latch. The panel clicked open into darkness.
My true domain: a narrow servant’s tunnel, every creak memorized. At its end, my hidden chamber: no windows, no candles, no gold. Just a desk, locked cabinets, maps, a burner phone, and weapons stashed where no maid would ever search.
Here, I shed the princess. I was not promised. I was not daughter. I was quiet death.
I cracked the cabinet, fetched my black case, and flipped open my second phone—no names, no family ties. Only one message from an unknown sender: target, payment, deadline. Vague. Perfect. Names breed emotion; details breed mistakes. The Ghost leaves no trace.
Clean exit. No witnesses. No spectacle.
I almost declined—until I saw the client’s initials: G.L.
My pulse paused.
I opened the note: “Strict discretion. You are the only one capable of this. —Gabriel Luoni.”
Gabriel Luoni: not a boss—yet. A capo whose reputation was carved into corpses. Mercy was foreign to him. He delivered when diplomacy died.
Rumors from Papa’s office whispered he was under consideration as my future husband.
I laughed softly. The man who might wed me had just hired the woman he believed to be a hired killer—male, no less.
Another buzz: “Do you accept?”
Logic said no. Working for a Luoni dagger was perilous; working for a fiancé’s was suicidal. Discovery spelled chains—or worse.
But I craved answers. What threat needed a blade he couldn’t summon? What monster did Papa plan to deliver to me?
I typed: JOB ACCEPTED. Then: CLEAN WORK COSTS EXTRA.
His reply blipped instantly: I PAY FOR RESULTS.
A man of few words—good. Talkers bleed secrets. He leaked none.
I powered down the phone and let the house’s quiet seep in. Downstairs, my father dined with men eager to see me docile; somewhere else, Gabriel Luoni waited for his Ghost; my mother slept through choices she never made. And I sat between them all: daughter, princess, weapon, ghost.
A soft rap at the panel: one—pause—two. Matteo.
I slipped a small knife inside my sleeve and opened the panel just enough to see him. His brow furrowed.
“You disappeared.”
“ I went upstairs.”
“You’re not upstairs.”
“Clearly.”
He sighed. “Father is looking for you.”
“Then he should search better.”
“Bibi—”
I hated that tone. Half-brother’s worry.
I stepped out. He noticed my hands. Too much—yet not enough.
“What are you doing here?”
“Escaping dessert.”
“You love dessert.”
“I loathe Bellandi more.”
His jaw tightened. “He isn’t the only option.”
My heart thumped steel. “So there are options?”
Matteo glanced away. Answer enough.
I offered him a hollow smile. “Lucky me.”
“He mentions Luoni.”
My pulse skipped. “ Gabriel?”
“You know him?”
“ I know of him.”
“Everyone does.”
“ Then why the question?”
“Because you sounded interested.”
I slid past him. “I’m interested in all men who might ruin my life.”
He caught my wrist—gently—and let go. Learned much.
“He’s dangerous, Bibi.”
“I’m more so.”
He managed a wry smile. “With your mouth, yes.”
I mirrored his grin. “If only he knew.”
Together we drifted back to the main hall. Laughter and deals drifted up. I paused halfway down the stairs.
Father stood in the foyer with Bellandi. Rocco’s ugly grin in place. He looked up; his gaze crawled over me.
I held it. Flesh parts so easily.
Rocco looked away first.
I descended, graceful. Papa’s face was calm fury—perfect.
“Bibiana.”
“Father.”
“Don Bellandi is leaving.”
I swept my gaze to their retreating backs. “Such a pity.”
Bellandi bowed stiffly. Rocco’s smile twisted.
They departed, doors sealing their silence.
Father let out a breath. “Matteo.”
Matteo froze. Father’s invitation to leave.
“Will you?” I asked softly. “I’ll be fine.”
Matteo hesitated, then retreated.
Father turned to me. “You’ve embarrassed me.”
I tilted my head. “I embarrassed Bellandi’s son. There’s a difference.”
“You will not be clever with me.”
“I thought sharp daughters were valuable.”
“Useful daughters obey.”
Obey—the men’s favorite word.
I stepped closer. “And what would you have me obey?”
His eyes burned into me, measuring how much defiance he could tolerate before I ceased to be his problem.
“You will meet Gabriel Luoni tomorrow.”
My pulse remained even. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes. He hates waiting.”
Unfortunate.
He leaned in. “You will respect him. You will be quiet.”
“I might find that difficult.”
His hand rose—just enough to threaten. I met his gaze, unflinching.
He lowered it.
“You remain my daughter.”
“Yes,” I breathed. “I know.”
He studied me a long moment. “Gabriel Luoni does not scare easily.”
“Then perhaps he should not scare.”
Father didn’t smile. I did.
I kissed his cheek—obedience incarnate. “Goodnight, Father.”
I retreated upstairs, every step a promise of docile compliance—at least until no one watched.
In my room I locked the door and stepped onto the balcony. The city lights glimmered like false freedom. Somewhere out there, Gabriel Luoni waited for The Ghost. Tomorrow he’d meet Bibiana Mazzanti—princess, bride, prey.
I flexed my hands—soft, pretty hands that had ended lives without hesitation.
Down below in the hidden room, my second phone buzzed with confirmation: payment secured, job in motion.
I smiled into the dark.
He wanted The Ghost.
Tomorrow, he’d get Bibiana.
Poor man.
He had no idea both women were already aiming their crosshairs at him.
