The Mafia Queen

Chapter 1

Francesca

I guess it was going to be another sleepless night. I’ve had a hard time falling asleep since that dream I had a week ago, right after my nineteenth birthday. I had received a lot of gifts, mostly expensive ones from my father, Carmine Marino, and my brother, Salvatore Marino, but the one that I loved the most came from someone else entirely, Lorenzo Diaz, or Enzo as my brother, and I call him mostly me.

In the dream, the air didn’t smell like smoke or concrete. It was quiet, the soft golden light of the estate garden washing over Enzo’s face as he stood in front of me. For months, I had locked my secrets away, but that moment, the armor finally cracked. I stepped closer, looking up into his eyes, and let the words slip past my lips—feelings I had never dared to whisper to a single soul before.

I love you. I have since I was eighteen.

The relief of saying it out loud felt like breaking the surface of deep water. Then the world shattered, leaving no room for Enzo to even respond.

A deafening, earth-shaking blast ripped through the peace, the shock wave rattling the bones in my chest. Instantly, the garden vanished. We were running side by side through the dark, our guns already drawn and at the ready, adrenaline masking the sudden panic. We hit the courtyard just in time to see smoke billowing from a massive, jagged breach at the south wall. Through the dust, what looked like an entire enemy army came pouring through the gap.

"Go! Run and get reinforcements!" Enzo yelled over the gunfire, his grip tight on his weapon as he pushed me back toward the house.

I didn’t want to leave him, but the empire demanded strategy, not emotion. I turned and ran, my lungs burning as I screamed for our soldiers. But when I finally made it back to the wall with a crew behind me, the defensive line was decimated. Enzo was standing alone, bleeding, barely holding the breach against a relentless wave of gunfire.

He heard us approach. He turned his head, his eyes locking onto mine for one fraction of a second—a look of fierce, devastating finality.

In slow motion, a flash of fire erupted from the enemy line. I watched the bullet tear through the air, flying straight at him, before striking him in the chest.

"No!" The scream tore from my throat, raw and blinding.

Pure instinct took over. I sprinted forward into the chaos, my finger heavy on the trigger as I dropped every enemy soldier who got between us. I didn't care about the crossfire; I only cared about reaching him. I crashed to my knees by his side, violently pulling his heavy frame upright against me. “Stay with me Enzo! You are not allowed to leave me!” I screamed, pressing my palm flat against the center of his chest, trying desperately to hold the crimson stain back, trying to force his heart to keep beating under my hands—

I gasped, my eyes flying open as I bolted upright in bed, staring into the quiet dark of my bedroom.

My hand was still pressed hard against my own chest, my heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs. A cold sweat glued the stray hairs of my ponytail to the back of my neck. I forced my hands flat against the silk sheets, breathing through the tight, suffocating band of pressure that instantly wrapped around my forehead and the base of my skull. It was the same blinding tension that had been punishing me for days.

I glanced at the digital clock on my nightstand. It was barely past eleven. I had only gotten an hour of sleep.

For the past week, insomnia had become a battle I was entirely losing. Every time I dared to close my eyes, my subconscious twisted my deepest desires into a horror story, forcing me to watch the man I loved die over and over again. It was a vicious, exhausting cycle: the sheer fear of the nightmare kept me awake for hours unless pure physical exhaustion won out, and the moment it did, the dream violently shook me awake all over again. It left me groggy, aching, and running on nothing but pure adrenaline.

Sighing, I swung my legs out of bed and let my feet hit the cold hardwood floor, forcing my hands to stop shaking. I couldn't afford to be weak, and I couldn't afford to be tired. Downstairs, the estate was still alive with its usual midnight hum. My father was likely still in his study finalizing tomorrow's morning briefing, Sal would be at his desk tracking late-night shipments, and Enzo would be patrolling the grounds on high alert.

Locking my jaw, I pushed the phantom image of Enzo's bleeding chest from my mind, and straightened my pajamas. I had no idea that before dawn, the peace of the Marino empire would bleed out right along with my father.

My throat felt like sandpaper, parched from the terror of the dream. Realizing sleep was a lost cause for the rest of the night, I slipped out of my bedroom, hoping a glass of ice water from the kitchen would help ground me.

The sprawling hallways of the estate were dark, illuminated only by the faint silver glow of the moonlight spilling through the high-arched windows. I walked barefoot, my steps silent on the polished floorboards—a habit beaten into me since childhood. The house was intensely quiet, the kind of heavy, suffocating silence that always preceded a storm.

As I reached the bottom of the grand staircase, a warm sliver of light cutting across the marble floor of the foyer caught my eye. It was coming from the partially open door of my father’s private office.

I paused on the bottom step, intending to just bypass it, until the sound of deep, hushed voices echoed into the hall. I froze, my fingers curling tightly around the glass of ice water I’d just gone downstairs to fetch. The heavy oak door to the study was cracked open just an inch, allowing a rich, comforting scent of Cuban tobacco to bleed into the quiet foyer.

"The timeline has moved up," my father’s gravelly voice cut through the quiet, carrying an absolute weight that made my chest tighten. It was the voice of a Don—unyielding, and accustomed to total obedience. "You leave at dawn, Lorenzo. The advanced security gauntlet in the northern sector isn't an option. It is a mandatory requirement for anyone stepping into the role of primary shield for the Marino inner circle."

"I understand, Don Carmine," Enzo’s voice replied. Even back then, his tone was a disciplined, steady baritone, but I could hear a rare, tense resistance scraping against the edges of his words. "But the timing . . . the street reports are getting louder. The eastern sector capos are restless. I should be here, guarding the perimeter. Guarding Francesca."

My heart did a strange, erratic flutter against my ribs at the mention of my name. I leaned a fraction closer to the wood, my breath catching in my throat.

"Salvatore and my veteran guards can handle the perimeter while you are gone," my father countered smoothly, the clink of a crystal tumbler signaling he was pouring a drink. "You have the raw lethal instinct, Lorenzo, but you need the tactical polish that only this training gauntlet can provide. If you are going to protect my daughter's future when I am no longer here to do it, you must become an untouchable weapon. You leave tomorrow. That is my final decree."

A heavy, breathless silence stretched inside the room. I knew Enzo wanted to argue—I could practically feel the stubborn, fierce protective energy radiating through the door frame—but a soldier didn't defy the Don.

"Understood, Boss," Enzo finally muttered, the words thick with a reluctant, heavy compliance. "I'll have my gear packed before sunrise."

Hearing his footsteps moving toward the door, I quickly stepped back into the shadows of the corridor, my heart hammering against my chest as I pretended to just be returning from the kitchen. The heavy oak door swung open, and Enzo stepped out into the dim hallway.

He froze the second he saw me. He was younger then, his massive, muscular frame clad in a simple black T-shirt, his hair slightly damp from the evening rain. But when his intense amber eyes locked onto mine, the sheer, unreadable warmth stretching between us made the cold hallway feel suffocatingly small. He looked down at the glass of water in my hands, then back up at my face, his jaw clenching tightly as if fighting a battle behind his teeth.

"Francesca," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, private register that bypassed his professional guard entirely.

"Are you really leaving tomorrow, Enzo?" I whispered, hate bubbling up in my chest at the thought of him being gone for a whole month.

He took a half-step closer, his large, calloused hand twitching at his side as if he wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch my shoulder. "I have to. But I'll be back before you even have time to miss me, sweetheart. I promise."

I offered him a tight, nervous smile, completely unaware of how fragile that promise truly was. "Keep your head down out there and come back in one piece." Not willing to say more — knowing that if I did, it would give away feelings for him that are forbidden.

"Always," he muttered, giving me one final, lingering look that burned straight through my skin before turning on his heel and heading down the corridor toward the guard quarters.

I watched him go until the shadows swallowed his frame, a strange, lingering dread settling deep in my stomach. Turning back toward the study, I knocked softly and pushed the door open to say goodnight to my father.

Don Carmine Marino was sitting back in his grand leather chair, a faint, tired smile touching his lips as he looked up from his ledger. "Ah, Francesca. Come in, Bella."

I walked over, setting my water on the desk and leaning down to wrap my arms around his neck. "You're working too late, Dad."

"An empire doesn't run itself," he chuckled, patting my hand with his large, warm palm. "But don't worry about the future. I am locking down every variable to make sure you and Sal have a secure kingdom. Lorenzo will be the final piece of that shield."

"I don't need a shield, I have you," I murmured, kissing his cheek.

"Not forever," he whispered softly, his eyes holding a strange, melancholic depth that I wouldn't understand until it was far too late. "Go on to bed, Francesca. I'll be up shortly."

"Goodnight, Dad. I love you."

"I love you too, princess."

I turned and walked out of the study, heading up the grand staircase to my bedroom on the second floor. The estate was quiet, the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer the only sound accompanying the low rumble of a distant, approaching thunderstorm outside.

I changed into my pajamas, climbed under the heavy covers, thinking about Enzo. I let my hand slip into my panties to help ease the ache I had for a man you shouldn't crave. After bringing myself a swift orgasm, I rolled onto my side and let the exhaustion of the day pull me into a light, restless sleep.

Craaaack!

A deafening, explosive roar violently shattered the night, tearing me straight out of my sleep. My eyes snapped open, my heart violently hammering against my ribs. It wasn't thunder. It was the distinct, terrifying sound of automatic gunfire ripping through the lower level of the mansion.

Shattering glass and frantic, echoed screams erupted downstairs.

"Ambush! Secure the Don! Clear the main hall!" a guard’s voice bellowed through the corridor, followed instantly by the sharp, deafening pop-pop-pop of defensive pistols returning fire.

Pure, icy terror flooded my veins. Panic overrode every ounce of my logic, causing me to completely ignore my training. I didn't grab my gun; I didn't think about my own safety. The only thing screaming in my brain was my father's face.

I threw the blankets aside, my bare feet hitting the cold floorboards as I ripped my bedroom door open and sprinted out into the hallway. The residential wing was a chaotic nightmare of smoky shadows and flashing muzzle sparks reflecting off the grand staircase walls.

"Francesca! Stay in your room!" Sal’s voice roared from the opposite end of the corridor. He was sprinting toward the stairs, a dark, heavy weapon gripped in his hands, his face a mask of frantic, blood-soaked fury.

I didn't listen. I couldn't. I had to get to my dad. I flew down the grand staircase, my bare feet slipping slightly on the polished wood as the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder hit my nose. The front entry doors had been violently blown off their hinges, and three masked gunmen lay dead on the marble floorboards of the foyer, blood pooling around their tactical gear.

"Dad!" I screamed, my voice a raw, hysterical shriek as I veered left, sprinting straight into his private study.

The room was completely decimated. The bookshelves were tipped over, their contents slipped and broken on the floor. The grand frosted glass panels had been blown into thousands of glittering shards, the air thick with white drywall dust and smoke.

And there, slumped over the edge of the mahogany desk, was my father. A puddle of blood spreading under him.

"No, no, no, no!" I sobbed, my knees buckling completely beneath me as I crashed onto the floorboards beside his chair.

I reached out, my hands trembling violently as I pulled his heavy body back against my chest. His chest was covered in deep, jagged crimson tears, the dark, warm blood spilling over his shirt and rapidly soaking into my bare hands, my arms, and the front of my pajamas.

"Dad, please! Open your eyes! Look at me!" I screamed, hysterically pressing my hands against the wounds, desperately trying to stem the rushing tide of crimson. But the blood was coming out too fast. It was pooling on the floorboards, warm and sticky, staining my skin.

He weakly grabbed my hand. I watched as his eyes went wide, the warm light completely vanishing from his gaze. His jaw went slack, his skin rapidly turning a hollow, terrifying shade of pale.

"Rossi! Someone get the doctor! He's bleeding!" I shrieked into the smoke, my voice breaking into a primal, broken sob as I cradled his head in my lap. I rocked him back and forth, my fingers leaving smeared, bloody tracks across his face as I desperately tried to find a pulse that wasn't there–hoping he was still in there somewhere, praying he wasn't gone.

Sal burst into the room a second later, his weapon dropping heavily to his side as the raw, pale horror washed across his features. He crashed to his knees on the other side of the desk, his hand flying to our father's neck before his broad shoulders completely slumped in a dark, silent defeat.

"He's gone, Fran," Sal whispered, his voice completely cracked, a single tear cutting through the soot on his cheek. "He's gone."

I didn't let go. I squeezed my father's lifeless body tighter, my vision violently fracturing into a blur of tears, smoke, and the unyielding crimson of the Marino crown. The doctors hadn't arrived fast enough. The shield hadn't been there to take the hit. Where was his guard?

And as the chaotic shouting of the surviving estate guards faded into a distant, ringing silence in my ears, I knew the soft, safe world I had lived in was permanently buried. The Don was dead, my hands were baptized in his blood, and the war for the empire had officially begun.