The Ice Crown
The snow outside Mia De Rossi’s estate never stopped falling. Thick, cold, and silent- just like the legacy she was born into. At twenty-two, Mia was no stranger to blood. She had grown up in the long shadow of her father, Don Salvatore De Rossi, one of the most feared Mafia Dons in the United States, but now the house was hers.
He had been buried a year ago under a blizzard that nearly froze the funeral procession, and the power he left had begun to tremble with unrest. Yet Mia stood unshaken.
She was more than her father’s daughter. She was shaped to be the first Donna, trained in everything from weapons to diplomacy to seduction. Her bodyguards, Rafe and Nico Marino, twin brothers, were assigned to her before she was even old enough to drink. Now, they were men of steel and sin, six-foot-two towers with olive skin, dark hair, and the kind of eyes that had learned how to kill before they knew how to cry.
Nico had tattoos winding over his chest, only visible when he wore one of his infamously open shirts. Rafe, more composed, bore a full sleeve on his left arm; black ink rippling over muscle. They never left her side.
Not even now, as Mia walked through the high halls of the estate, her long dark hair braided with gold pins, her emerald eyes catching the flicker of the fireplace. She wore black lace under her robe, but it was her gaze, not her skin, that set men on fire.
“Mia,” Rafe called from the study. “There’s movement near the Valenti border. Should we call the council?” Mia stepped into the study, her presence shifting the air around her. “No,” she said. “Let them make the first mistake, then we will bury the pieces.” Rafe grinned while Nico watched closely, too closely. Later that night, she would catch Nico watching her in the mirror, and this time, she would not stop him.
The estate was locked tight in the winter, the security detail doubled, and the staff cleared for loyalty. Mia stood in her father’s old office, one hand resting on the worn desk, the other tracing the rim of a wine glass.
Rafe entered first, then Nico. Always together, always in rhythm. The tension between them tonight had changed. “Mia,” Nico said, his voice low. “There’s a meeting, the Council of Dons. They are pushing back your claim again.”
She turned slowly, looking at Nico and Rafe. “Yet none of them are bold enough to come for my throne directly.” “You make them afraid,” Rafe said. “No,” she replied, eyes blazing. “I make them hard.” Deafening silence.
Nico’s jaw flexed, and Rafe looked away. That power, hers, was not just in her blood. It was in command, in control, in seduction. Mia moved to the window, her back turned to them. Her robe slid down her shoulder, exposing her bare skin. “I want to feel protected,” she said in her dark velvet voice, “and owned.”
Nico stepped forward before Rafe could stop him. “Mia, if you knew what I wanted.” “I do,” she said, interrupting. “But you are mine, and I don’t share, unless I choose to.” That night, as the snow piled thick outside, Mia left her door cracked open. Just wide enough for them to wonder if it was a trap or an invitation.
