In Love With The Mafia Kings Son

Chapter 7

Friday felt like an endurance test. Letty navigated the day on autopilot, diligently keeping her head down, but the air around her was now thick with subtle attention. Her brief moment of victory in the gym had permanently altered her social status, forcing her out of the shadows.

When lunch finally hit, she was standing in the cafeteria line, clinging to her tray and searching for the least expensive option. The food here was still outrageously fancy, and she was acutely aware of her limited budget.

Suddenly, a small storm of designer fabric and confidence enveloped her. Two girls from the cheerleading squad and Dylan—the tall, grinning boy who had hoisted her during volleyball—flanked her, immediately talking to her like they had been friends all their lives.

Letty froze, her mind scrambling for an appropriate, invisible response.

Dylan threw an arm around her, the casual familiarity making her entire body tense. He pulled her close, his height dwarfing her small frame. “Hey! Squad member, you should get the Chicken Caprese Salad,” he said, pointing to a glistening, colorful dish. “It’s high in protein and less carbs. Perfect for a flyer.”

Letty looked at the salad, then quickly back at the price tag. It was easily double what she normally allowed herself. She felt a familiar, embarrassing flush creep up her neck.

“Oh, I—I can’t afford that,” she whispered, staring down at the floor.

Dylan scoffed, genuinely amused by her naivety. “You’re on squad, Nicolette. You don’t have to worry about that.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He casually dropped a salad container onto her tray, added a bottle of fancy flavored water, and walked her straight to the cashier.

“She’s on the squad, put it on the tab,” he instructed the elderly cashier with bored authority.

The cashier, unblinking, just nodded and looked at

Letty with a distant, resigned expression. “You’re all set, dear.”

Letty’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm. She had just been granted credit and accepted into a privileged world she didn't belong in, all with a single sentence.

Dylan turned, gently steering her away from the food line. Letty started walking toward the Scholarship Table, desperate for the quiet safety of Brenda and the others.

But Dylan suddenly pulled up short. He noticed her trajectory and chuckled, shaking his head.

“Where are you going?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“To sit,” Letty managed, pointing vaguely toward her table.

Dylan gently touched her arm, not letting go, and smoothly pulled her in the opposite direction, toward a large circular table in the center of the cafeteria.

“You’re on the cheerleading squad now, Nicolette. We sit over here.”

Letty hesitated. She glanced desperately over her shoulder. She saw Brenda and the rest of the scholarship table looking at her—their faces a mixture of confusion and deep worry. The distance was vast and absolute. Dylan’s hand on her arm felt less like guidance and more like a tether.

Letty’s heart raced with sickening speed as they approached the epicenter of Westwood’s power.

Isabella was there, along with the rest of the squad, Dante’s friends, and, of course, Dante Rossi himself.

Her world felt like it was going to explode when Dante turned his head. His massive frame, relaxed until that moment, seemed to sharpen. He looked directly at her, their eyes locking across the short distance. He flashed her a familiar, intense smile and patted the empty seat immediately next to him.

“Sit.”

It wasn't a question, or even an invitation. It was a demand.

In the back of Letty’s mind, a small, terrified voice screamed to run away and never look back. But she couldn't. Staring into the immense depth of Dante's chocolate brown eyes, her trauma-driven compliance, mixed with the dangerous thrill he provoked, was absolute. She couldn't look away, she couldn't say no.

Her body seemed to move on its own, obeying his command, and she sank into the seat beside him.

He leaned back, flashing her a satisfied, private smirk.

Isabella, sitting directly across from them, snapped Letty out of her trance. “Nicolette, you have a lot to catch up on,” she said, her voice sharp. “You’re coming to my house tomorrow morning. We’re doing an extra practice session before we finalize the stunt routine.”

Letty hesitated, but her head gave a small, submissive nod.

Isabella nodded back. “Great. I’ll have Dylan pick you up at eight-thirty. He knows the route.”

Dylan, sitting nearby, gave Letty a confident, flirtatious wink.

Suddenly, the relaxed atmosphere at the table shattered.

Dante spoke. His voice was low, cutting through the casual chatter with a chilling, possessive finality.

“No.”

The word hung in the air. The entire table, including Isabella, looked at Dante. He hadn't realized how defensive, proprietary, and jealous he sounded—emotions he’d never before been forced to confront.

Isabella tilted her head toward her brother, giving him a half-confused, half-amused look. She knew that tone; it meant he was making a claim.

Dante cleared his throat, covering the slip with a casual arrogance. “I’ll pick her up. I already know where she lives.”

Isabella scoffed, shrugging off the intense moment.

“Whatever. I don’t care who picks her up, as long as she’s at the house by nine.”

The conversation immediately shifted back to trivial topics, but the tension around Dante and Letty remained. Letty didn't say anything else, just listened, poking nervously at her Caprese salad. The proximity was overwhelming: she felt the immense heat radiating from Dante’s body next to hers and inhaled the intoxicating cloud of his cologne. Every so often, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stealing quick, proprietary glances at her, confirming her new, terrifying reality.

The bus ride home was a welcome, silent buffer after the suffocating intensity of the cafeteria. Letty walked into the apartment and immediately set about her routine, the familiar motions of domesticity a necessary balm against the chaos of Westwood. She was still reeling from the knowledge that she would be at the Rossi mansion tomorrow, having been publicly claimed by Dante.

She was ten minutes into prepping dinner—a simple pasta dish with homemade sauce—when the apartment door finally clicked open. Her father walked in.

He looked utterly exhausted. The clean lines of his suit were rumpled, his tie was loose, and the deep lines around his eyes were heavier than usual, etched by a long week spent battling a system designed to resist him. He dropped his briefcase with a weary thud and ran a hand over his tired face.

Without a word, Letty completed her ritual. She fixed him a hot plate of the pasta and pulled a cold beer from the refrigerator, placing both in front of his usual spot at the small kitchen table.

She then served herself, taking a small portion and a glass of milk, and sat down across from him. The arrangement was silent, habitual, and deeply strained.

Peter took a long, grateful swallow of the beer, his eyes closed momentarily in relief. He finally looked up at Letty, making the necessary, cursory gesture toward connection.

“So,” he started, his voice rough. “How was your first full week at... Westwood.”

Letty stiffened. She poked at her pasta, debating the necessary level of deception. She didn't like lying, but the thought of the lecture—the fear, the escalation, the inevitable Why would you do that, Nicolette—was worse. She couldn't tell him she was now on a first-name basis with the Mafia Prince and was scheduled to practice cheerleading at the crime family's compound tomorrow morning with the Mafia Princess.

She settled on the necessary evasion. She shrugged.

“I survived.”

Peter merely nodded, taking a heavy forkful of food.

He was too tired and drained to read the complex layers of emotion flickering across her face, or to notice that "survived" was an unnerving choice of words. He accepted her answer as the full truth and immediately retreated back into his own exhaustion.

“That’s good,” he murmured. “Look, this isn't easy out here. These families, they're entrenched. I've got my work cut out for myself. There's a few high-profile families, they're everywhere.”

Letty was barely listening. She continued to poke at her plate, the Mafia families names replaced in her head by the physical sensation of Dante’s heat next to her. She thought of his possessive gaze, his hand on the wheel, and the cold, thrilling finality of his claim.

My little one.

She barely registered her father’s voice as he droned on about wiretaps and financial flows. All she could see was the path she had accidentally walked onto—a path that led directly to the very danger her father was trying to extinguish, a path chosen for her by the man who had just claimed her.