In Love With The Mafia Kings Son

The landscape had blurred into an endless, sun-bleached monotony of scrub and highway somewhere near the Arizona border, but for Nicolette Andrews, the drive had started two days ago and forty states away, in the chill, familiar gray of Detroit. She sat hunched against the passenger-side window of her father’s new DEA-issued black sedan—a sterile, expensive cage—her small frame barely touching the leather seat. ​Letty, eighteen, moved with the guarded silence of someone much older. Her light caramel skin was lightly dusted with freckles, highlighting her striking, dark eyes, and she wore her brown hair pulled back in a simple, practical ponytail. Her outfit for the move was a baggy, thrifted crewneck and worn jeans—a silent, determined effort to be anything but visible. She was undeniably beautiful, but it was a beauty she actively tried to cloak, a direct result of the trauma that had defined her since she was six. ​Next to her, Peter Andrews was the picture of clean-cut, weary authority. At forty, the stress of his obsession had etched deep lines around his eyes, making him look perpetually five years older. He was dressed in a starched white shirt and a dark, rumpled blazer—even driving cross-country, he carried the severe formality of a man who lived by rules and duty. The silence in the car, heavy and familiar, was his default setting. ​Letty knew why they were here. It wasn't about a career move; it was about the ghost of her mother, and Peter’s never-ending, unavenged grief. She hated moving, but the bitterness remained locked down, drowned by the deep, instinctual need to be compliant. ​Peter cleared his throat, shattering the silence. “The moving van should be there before we are. Did you confirm the utilities, Nicolette?” ​“Yes, Father,” she answered, her voice soft, devoid of inflection. Yes, I, your daughter and personal assistant, did all the adult work while you planned your revenge tour. The passive aggression was a private luxury. ​Peter didn't look over. He stared straight at the road, his jaw tight. "Good. Look, I know this wasn't what you wanted, but this isn't negotiable. This is a chance for me to put some serious hurt on the people who took everything from us. They think they’re untouchable here." ​He finally glanced at her, his eyes blazing with frightening intensity. ​“Let me be perfectly clear, Letty. I’m not here to take a paycheck. I’m not here to play nice, and I won’t be taking any bribes. This transfer is personal. It is my vow. I’m here to dismantle every single one of those families, piece by piece, until the city burns. And I expect you to keep your head down. Do you understand?” ​Letty’s tiny body tightened further. The silent promise of compliance was the only currency she had left. “I understand, Father.” ​They arrived in Los Angeles not to the glittering mansions of the hills, but to the flat, unremarkable grid of a lower-middle-class suburb closer to the valley. The new DEA housing benefit had stretched just far enough for a small, two-bedroom apartment in an aging complex. ​The building was beige stucco, surrounded by a cracked asphalt parking lot and struggling palm trees. It was clean, functional, and utterly devoid of any of the California glamor she had expected. It felt smaller, grayer, and lonelier than their house in Detroit. ​Peter barely paused. He parked the car, and glanced at the building with clinical detachment. “The key is under the mat. Unpack what you need. I have a two o’clock briefing. They want me on the ground immediately.” ​“Okay.” Letty got out of the car and watched him drive away. He was already gone, lost in the single-minded focus of his vendetta, leaving her standing alone in a city that felt hostile and indifferent. ​The apartment smelled faintly of old carpet and disinfectant. Letty dragged her worn duffel bag into the smaller of the two bedrooms. Her room. It was tiny, with walls the color of bad coffee and a single, chipped window that faced the neighboring unit's wall. ​The loneliness was a heavy cloak. Letty spent the evening unpacking her cherished, worn library—her books, her escape—and carefully covering the window with a thick, borrowed blanket. Invisibility, she reminded herself. That is the mission now. ​For the next few days, she was a ghost. She ran the errands her father demanded, but otherwise, she stayed inside. Peter was a shadow, coming home late, leaving early, his temper shortening with every hour spent in his new role. The only life Letty saw was the fleeting world of Westwood Elite Academy brochures on the kitchen counter—the required school, a place where, according to the glossy paper, students wore expensive blazers and smiled like predators. --- ​Letty was dressed in the required uniform: the crisp, dark pleated plaid skirt in shades of forest green and black, a black collared shirt, and the ridiculous matching tie. The fabric was expensive and heavy, a tactile reminder of the wealth she was meant to emulate. She sat alone at the kitchen table, picking listlessly at a bowl of dry cereal. Her small frame felt swallowed by the alien clothes, and a knot of nervous energy tightened in her stomach. ​Her father emerged from the hallway, his suit perfect, his mind miles away. He walked straight to the counter and prepared his coffee—black, bitter, and strong. The silence that preceded his movement was the language of their relationship. ​He finally turned, holding the steaming mug. His expression was flat, professional. “You have a good day, Nicolette.” ​"Thank you, Father." ​He took a slow sip of the coffee, his eyes focused on his task. "I'll be working late again. New assignment. Don't wait up for me tonight." ​Letty was used to it. She was used to the vast, peaceful silence of the apartment after his car pulled away. His absence was a perverse form of freedom, allowing her to retreat fully into her bunker. ​She just nodded. “Have a good day. And be safe.” ​Peter gave the briefest of acknowledgments and walked out the door, the heavy click of the lock echoing the definitive break in the morning. Letty let out a small, shuddering breath and stared at the empty space he had just occupied. ​ ​The low rumble of the public bus pulled up to the curb. The bus was her fortress. Letty slipped out quickly, a worn student bus pass clutched in her hand. ​When she finally disembarked, the school’s immediate presence was jarring. Westwood Elite Academy didn't look like a school; it looked like a contemporary art museum. The parking lot was a rotating display of exotic wealth: Ferraris, custom Range Rovers, and matte-black G-Wagons. Not many students took the bus; the few who did were instantly recognizable as scholarship cases. ​Letty clutched her worn backpack. She was here on merit: her GPA was the highest Westwood had seen in a long time. It was her only real, unearned weapon, but it felt worthless now. ​The student body moved with the slow, entitled swagger of royalty. Every piece of clothing was a calculated statement of wealth and trend. ​Letty made a beeline for the administrative office. Just get the schedule. Find the least-used corner. Disappear. ​She was halfway across the central courtyard when the atmosphere shifted. A figure emerged from the main archway, and the entire courtyard seemed to subtly rearrange itself around them. It was a conscious shift in student traffic, a deference that was chillingly immediate. ​Isabella Rossi was the epicenter of the disruption. She was a vision of flawless, aggressive glamour, her uniform skirt styled with rebellious flair. Her skirt hiked high, the top buttons of her shirt undone showing off her pushed up breast. Next to her, a flurry of equally expensive friends acted as her court. ​Isabella stopped dead center, her head tilting slightly. Her eyes, sharp and predatory, instantly fixed on Letty. The gaze was one of measured curiosity. ​Isabella and her friend—a tall blonde with a permanent look of boredom—slowly advanced. The surrounding chatter died down, creating a silence that felt like a spotlight on Letty. ​Isabella stopped directly in front of her, her proximity radiating power. Her eyes swept over Letty's worn backpack and the sensible shoes. She didn't have to shout; the silence was her microphone. ​“Look at what we have here,” Isabella drawled, her voice a low, melodious sneer that carried effortlessly across the sudden hush. “You’re new. I would have heard if anyone with taste was starting this week, which means you're here on a scholarship.” ​Letty froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was fully exposed, fully visible, exactly where her trauma dictated she should never be. She didn’t dare look up. She felt the blood rush from her cheeks, reverting to her trauma-induced script: shrink, submit, survive. ​Isabella’s friend, the blonde, giggled nervously. ​Isabella leaned in slightly, the sheer scent of her expensive perfume intimidating. Her eyes, however, seemed to search Letty's face, pausing over the large, dark eyes that still refused to meet hers. "Hmm. Intriguing," she murmured, a private assessment meant only for herself. "You look like you're lost. What's your name?" ​Letty finally forced herself to speak, the word catching in her throat. "Nicolette." ​Isabella repeated the name slowly, trying it out, finding it too formal. "No. That won't do here. Anyway, welcome to Westwood, Nicolette. Try not to trip over anything." It was a calculated, dismissive acknowledgment that Letty now existed in her sphere. ​Letty went to step back and turn to walk away when she walked into something hard, solid, and warm. ​The force of the collision was minimal, but the shock was profound. Letty’s already fragile balance was thrown, and she gasped, her hands instinctively flying out to grasp whatever she had struck. The thing she held was an arm—thick, corded with muscle, and entirely immovable. The scent that hit her wasn't expensive cologne; it was something clean, masculine, and primal. ​She immediately pulled back and finally forced her gaze upward. ​Standing behind her, completely unfazed by the collision, was Dante Rossi.