Prologue
Not every girl grows up to be daddy’s princess.
Some of us grow up to be our mother’s warriors.
If I hadn’t been born into the mafia, I probably still would’ve ended up a serial killer.
I bring the brick down on his stupid pig face for the twenty-seventh time, trying to forget the greasy fingers that were digging into my throat.
My Valentino dress has soaked up the stink of his blood.
I loved this dress.
His brains splatter across the concrete like mashed potatoes under a toddler’s hands.
Sweat runs down my temples. Pieces of that disgusting, bloody mess are tangled in my hair, staining the strand that’s fallen over my face.
I stand up, swaying.
Almost slip in the blood.
Perfect.
I rip the diamond necklace off my neck and toss it next to the bastard.
Funeral expenses.
After all, he was a respectable man.
Right up until the moment I found out he was a pedophile.
Without looking back, I slap barefoot across the cold concrete floor toward the stairs.
I need fresh air.
And a plane.
And coffee.
God, I hate the sight of blood.
I shove my hand into my neckline and pull out a folding phone.
The sunlight makes me squint, but I lift my face toward the warm June sun anyway.
“Pick me up. And bring coffee.”
I hang up before he can answer.
If Alfredo isn’t here in ten minutes, I’ll crack his skull open too.
Swear to God.
People on the sidewalk recoil when they see me.
One woman even covers her kid’s eyes.
“Someone should call the police,” she mutters, hurrying away.
I look down at myself.
Hands covered in blood.
Dress completely ruined.
Whatever.
And you know what?
Today I smashed three things with a brick: his skull, my nail, and, apparently, my life.
Fuck.
