In The Wrong Mafia Don's Bed

ella

Trinity Cathedral usually brought me peace. Today,

ting into my knees. It was early March, and the Chicago wind howling o

lickering flame mirrored the flash of cameras from

r, the spoiled princess of our rival family, standing in her pristine white silk gown, loudly mocking the Griffin family's crumbling empire. She had delib

ead of my restraint. The crystal goblet of Bordeaux in my hand had tipped, th

pted. A public vende

*he* had s

n Mor

tfit. The undisputed king

voice. He hadn't even looked at Victoria. He had simply walked up to me, his tailored black sui

sweating, and delivered his verdict wi

lled. A li

foolish, reckless girl in front of the entire Chicago elite, forcing my father to ship me off to Flo

e Virgin Mary, my voice echoing

white. "Damien Moretti is a cold-blooded monster. He ruined my

with a toxic mix of anger and helplessness. In our world, a Don's word was a

hissed, the venom tasting bitter on my

t through the nave, making th

ound broke the heavy silence. It was faint-a low, dark s

heavy velvet curtains obscuring whoever was inside. A suffocating weight pressed d

, the sharp click of heels

el

oyal associate, hurrying toward me wi

asked softly, her eyes darting

my heart to slow its frantic beating. I cast one last, une

nking my arm through Nina's. "But God isn't the one