Mafia Princess's Fall, Cartel Queen's Rise

Alessia POV:

I woke on my own couch.

My skull felt like it had been split clean in two.

A man was sitting in my father's armchair, calmly cleaning a long, thin knife with a cloth. His face was a roadmap of cruelty, the most prominent feature a jagged scar that bisected one eyebrow.

He saw me stir and smiled, a flash of gold teeth. "Welcome back, princess."

The doorbell rang.

My heart leaped into my throat.

"Alessia?" Dante's voice. Muffled, but undeniably clear. "Alessia, open the door."

The man with the scar was on his feet in an instant. He pressed the cold, flat side of the blade against my throat.

"Tell him you're fine," he whispered, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Tell him to go away. Or I'll open you up right here."

My voice trembled, but I did as he said. "Dante? I'm fine. I'm just... exhausted. I need to sleep."

I heard him hesitate. A silence stretched, thick with suspicion. For a terrifying second, I thought he'd kick the door in. Then, his footsteps retreated down the walk.

My captor chuckled, a low, guttural sound. He pressed a cloth to my face.

A sickeningly sweet, chemical scent flooded my senses, and the world dissolved into a black, swirling fog.

When I woke again, I was tied to a chair in a filthy, tequila-sour cantina. The music was deafening, the air thick with smoke and cheap perfume.

The man leaned over me, his breath hot and foul. "Good news," he sneered. "Your father, the 'Scorpion Senator'? He's dead. Shot while trying to escape capture at the wedding. Very messy."

The world tilted, the garish lights smearing into a sickening blur. Dead.

The word was a void, a black hole that swallowed all sound. My father was gone. Truly and finally gone. That complicated, impossible, monstrous man... and I would never see him again.

"But El Jefe," my captor continued, oblivious, "he wants to meet you. Wants to see if you're a chip off the old block."

An explosion rocked the building, shaking the cheap wooden walls to their foundations. Shouting erupted outside in Spanish. Gunfire.

The man cursed, darting toward the door before spinning back, his focus snapping to me. "Change of plans. El Jefe wants you to sample the new product."

He held up a syringe filled with a shimmering, blood-red liquid. "Crimson Thorn."

The door burst open, splintering off its hinges.

Dante stood there, gun raised. He wasn't dressed like a cop. He was dressed in tactical black, his face a mask of lethally controlled fury.

He looked exactly like what he was. A Don.

"Let her go, Hector," he commanded, his voice a low growl that cut through the chaos.

Hector just laughed. He yanked me up, pulling me in front of him as a human shield, and pressed the tip of the needle against the soft skin of my neck.

"Drop your weapon, Don De Luca."