Gifted To The Don The Real Mafia Heiress Returns Chapter 03
The Room
The doors close behind me.
Vivienne gasps.
The room is a shrine. Silk drapes the color of arterial blood. A white marble fireplace, unlit.
A vanity done in gold leaf, laid out with brushes and jars.
Vivienne’s fingers tremble over the vanity. Her eyes are glassy.
“Just one of these — one piece — is worth more than our whole house—”
Salvatore’s throat works.
He’s mapping the room, brick by brick, dollar by dollar. Then he turns to me, and something calculating slides into his face.
“Bella. Vivienne marries into the Colombo. You keep Ricci happy. We’re all set for life.”
I don’t answer, just trailing my fingers over the objects on the side table.
A vase. I hand-painted it for my mother when I was thirteen.
Somehow, Dante found this.
The door opens. A capo walks in — hard face, boxer’s nose, gun bulge under the jacket.
His eyes sweep the room. He looks at Vivienne and Salvatore like they’re a stain on the carpet.
Then he looks at me.
He stops. Dead.
His pupils blow wide. And then the man drops his head so fast I hear his neck crack.
“Miss—”
Salvatore beelines toward him, smile at full watts. “Sir, my daughter—”
“I’m getting the Don. Nobody moves. Especially — her. She stays exactly where she is. Understood?”
He’s out the door before anyone answers.
Vivienne has gone gray. Her eyes flick between me and the door and back. Then they land on the wall.
There’s a portrait there. Life-size. A woman in a green evening gown. Between her brows — one small heart-shaped mark.
Vivienne’s face empties.
“Papa. Papa, look at the — Bella looks like—”
The door bangs open.
A high, sharp voice cuts in, “What is all this noise? The Don hates noise.”
A woman sweeps in. Twenty-something. Beautiful in the way expensive things are beautiful, and just as cold.
Four girls trail her, carrying her purse, her coat, her drink.
Camilla Ambrosio.
Senator Ambrosio’s daughter. The only woman in the city allowed past the Ricci Manor’s gates without an invitation.
Everybody knows what that means.
Her eyes skim over Vivienne — dismissed — and land on me.
Everything on her face curdles.
“So you’re the whore they sent over from the Moretti house? Cute. Painted a little mark on your forehead to catch his attention?”
She steps closer, teeth showing.
“You know who that mark belongs to? The only woman my Don ever cared — you have some nerve, sweetheart.”
“Somebody should’ve warned you what happens to imposters in this house.”
I meet her eyes. Let the corner of my mouth lift.
“Imposter?” I say. Quiet. “How would you know I’m not the original?”
“You?” She laughs, incredulous. “You? Compare yourself to her?”
Her hand comes up fast, aiming at my face.
I lean back just enough, catching her wrist on the way down.
“Dante hates loud women.”
I say it soft. Almost gentle.
The blood drains out of her face in real time.
She shrieks like a cat.
“You said his name. You said his name — I’ll teach you what happens to little sluts who forget who they are in this house—”
Vivienne sees her opening.
She’s on me from behind before I can turn — arms around my waist, and with all the weight she has she slams me down onto the marble.
My knees hit first. The sound my kneecaps make is not a good sound.
Vivienne pins me from above, grinning up at Camilla like a dog begging for scraps.
“Miss Ambrosio! I’ve got her! Whatever you want to do — go ahead!”
Camilla pulls a hairpin — long, gold, sharp as a blade — from her twist.
She lowers it toward the mark between my brows. “Whore. You think you can wear her face?”
I can’t move. Vivienne’s whole weight is on my shoulders.
I look up at Camilla — that pretty, twisted face — and through the pain I let one whisper leave my mouth.
Not for her.
For him.
“Dante. Get down here. Now.”
Camilla laughs, delighted. “You crazy bitch. You think he’ll come running for you?”
She raises the hairpin high. “Tonight I carve that lie off your face.”
The pin comes down.