AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Alright, I got it,” he says on a sigh. “I’ll find your girl. Have you heard back from De Luca?”
I nod. “Roman has agreed to a meeting. He’s suspicious as hell, which is frankly annoying considering I saved his daughter’s life.”
“After your uncle jeopardized it in the first place. And you did use her as a bargaining chip.”
“Good point,” I murmur. “At least now I’ve got something else to bargain with.”
“Let’s hope he bites.”
“He will,” I state, completely assured.
Jason leaves, and the rest of my day is spent trying to fix my family’s crumbling empire, while adding last minute touches to my plan to ensure it goes off without a hitch.
Unfortunately, even the most foolproof plans can end up blowing up in a person’s face. People can be fickle. And while I can control most eventualities, I have no control over a person’s mind or actions.
I’m sure Roman will be easy to convince. His sister, though, that’s a whole other issue.
CHAPTER 2
Rosa
In royal families, when two kids are born in line to inherit the throne, they are sometimes referred to as the heir and the spare. I can relate to that. I’ve related to it my whole life. While my family’s not royalty, we’re pretty damn close.
Roman was the heir and I was the spare. And I’ve always been content with that. I was the family’s little girl, and I got pretty much everything I wanted. I was allowed to stay as far away from my family’s business as possible, which suited me perfectly. My brother lived his life doing away with whatever humanity he had; meanwhile, I grew up with as much of my humanity as possible.
With a family like mine, it’s incredibly easy to lose yourself. But I’ve always known exactly who I am. And I’ve always known what I want. The only problem is, it’s not always easy to get those things. Especially not when you’re the princess of a mafia family in the Cosa Nostra.
So, while a major benefit is that I was able to retain most of my humanity, the downside is that I’ve never had any freedom. My mother taught me that freedom is a luxury I can’t afford. But she also taught me that there are various ways to feel free.And one such way is through art. When I’m sculpting, painting, drawing, those are the only times I ever truly feel in control.
My heels clack against the marble floors until I stop in front of a large canvas. Something inside me stirs. If you know what to look for, you can tell exactly how an artist was feeling when they created their work. I stare at the depiction of the burning house and the sun above it that seems to be the reason for the destruction. If you look closely, the sun almost has a face—almost.
“That looks nice,” someone says from behind me. “Is it yours?”
The voice is entirely unfamiliar, and unwelcome. Very slowly, I turn around. And oddly enough, my heart skips a beat. I’m not particularly sure why. He’s wearing a navy-blue suit with crisp lines and a perfectly knotted tie. A chill caresses my forearms as his gaze trails over my face.
His light blue eyes are crystal clear, like glass. He has short, full, reddish-brown hair. It looks soft, soft enough to run my hands through. But I can’t think about that, especially when something about him reminds me of my brother. Dangerous, powerful. And definitely not good for me. There’s an air of superiority around him, an arrogance carved into him. He’s about six feet tall, which is tall, much taller than me. But he’s still not as tall as some of the men that surround me every day. And yet the arrogance around his posture and aura makes him seem much bigger, larger than life. I swallow softly.
It takes a few seconds for me to remember he asked a question.
“No, it’s not,” I say, hating how breathless my voice sounds.
He smiles. It’s a soft one, but I can tell it’s not genuine. And that more than anything else jolts me back to reality.
“Wait. Why would you think it was mine?” I ask curiously. I’m just a woman walking around an art gallery. How would he know I was an artist? “Do you know who I am?”
“Smart girl,” he says, placing a hand in his left pocket. He looks slightly impressed.
I frown. “Who are you?”
“I could tell you,” he says, cocking his head to the side, “but I don’t particularly want to.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because,” he drawls, “I simply don’t want to.”
Forget his handsome face. I’m not sure I like him or his attitude.
