Chapter 2
Luca bailed on me without looking back.
The Maserati’s engine thundered through the parking garage as his text lit up my screen.
[Get your shit out while I’m gone.] [Locksmith’s coming in two weeks.]
I didn’t text back. Just silently erased myself from the mansion where I’d spent five fucking years.
Later, my phone glowed again.
Luca had probably reached his precious Grace by now–little miss jumping–at–shadows.
Just cleaning up after our ten–year relationship like taking out yesterday’s trash.
“Hit me up if you need something.”
“We’re still friends, even if I couldn’t wife you up.”
Ten years loving Luca Russo. And he tosses me a “let’s be friends” like throwing spare change at a
beggar.
That storm pounded New Jersey for two straight days.
The whole city dripping wet, miserable to the bone.
I’d lie awake, getting up at 3 AM just to flick my lighter in the dark.
When I first hooked up with Luca, he was just some punk who couldn’t make rent, crashing in a noldy basement.
In that damp hellhole, the only light came from his Zippo.
Click Click–spark, darkness.
Luca, buzz cut fresh, eyeing me in my Catholic school uniform.
1649
No More My Mafia Don’s Plaything–Now I’m Riding the V–Card Golden Boy
0
“You better know what you’re getting into, princess,” he growled.
“I’m a fucking nobody with nothing.”
“Can’t give you that white picket fence bullshit.”
I was so damn innocent back then.
Peeled off my dripping sneakers.
Pressed my ice–cold feet against his chest.
Through his wifebeater, Luca’s body burned like a furnace, lighting me up from inside.
With just that tiny flame between us, I lifted my chin and nodded.
“I don’t give a fuck about picket fences, Luca.”
“I just want you.”
I’d helped Luca clean blood off guns, held knives to throats.
On nights that reeked of bandages and antiseptic, we’d fucked so hard I’d see stars, his hands around my throat until I blacked out, only to wake up begging for more.
Luca swore that once he went legit, his first move would be putting a ring on my finger.
Now he’s finally going straight, and his priority is cutting me out of the picture.
I’m twenty–eight now. Too old for this life, he says.
Whatever. My family’s got some preppy asshole already picked out, just waiting for me to play the good heiress.
No More My Mafia Don’s Plaything–Now I’m Riding the V–Card Golden Boy
