The Mafia Princess Mistaken for a Cleaner

I’m the princess of the Moretti family, the Chicago Outfit. But all I ever cared about was sculpting.

The day before Thanksgiving, my car died on me. I had to drive home in some beat-up, mud-caked Jeep.

The second I walked into the penthouse, some strange woman shoved a pile of silver polish into my arms.

She jutted her chin at me. “Get these polished before the dinner party,” she sneered.

I looked at her. She was wearing my late mother’s favorite silk robe.

This is my house. Who the hell was this woman?

And who was supposed to polish this junk? Me? The only princess of the Moretti family?

I pulled out my phone. Opened the family's encrypted app. I sent a message to my father, Vincenzo.

“Your new pet wants me to polish the silver.”

Not even three seconds later, my phone blew up.

"Who touched the princess?"

"A name. Now."

"Who the fuck put their hands on Aria?"

"Boss, we're rolling."

The family channel lit up like a Christmas tree. Twenty messages flew by, each one a death threat.

My father, Vincenzo, replied at the top of the chat: "I don't have a new pet. Where are you? What happened?"

I was about to type "The living room" when a sharp pain shot through my shoulder.

The woman shoved me hard. I stumbled back.

"Playing maid for the day?" she sneered. "All dressed up with nowhere to go? I gave you an order."

She snatched my encrypted phone right out of my hand. Her long nails almost scratched the screen.

I almost laughed, out of pure rage.

Seriously. In my entire life, nobody had ever dared to touch my things. Nobody but my father, Don Vincenzo.

"Give it back." My voice dropped, low and dangerous. Pure Moretti ice.

My father taught me young. True power never needs to be shown.

So I never acted like I was better than anyone.

But that didn't mean I'd let some random woman walk all over me.

She held my phone up, her eyes glued to the messages still flooding the screen. Each one asking if I was safe. Each one threatening to kill whoever dared to hurt me.

"And if I don't? Who are you going to cry to?" she sneered, her eyes flashing with malice. "I could have your agency fire you. You wouldn't even have this job."

I took a step forward. "I said, give it back."

"The Boss thinks the world of me. I, Brenda, am about to be the lady of this house." She puffed out her chest. "One word from me, and you won't be able to find work anywhere in Chicago."

I couldn't help but sneer. My father? Her Boss?

"And what does the Don like about you?" I asked, my voice sweet as poison. "Your cheap perfume or your gutter mouth?"

The woman's face changed. I'd hit a nerve. She was furious.

“You little bitch! What did you say?!” she shrieked. “You’re just jealous! Jealous that I get to stay here! Jealous that I'm going to be the lady of the house! Look at you! Dressed like a bricklayer, looking like you don’t have a penny to your name. You think you can seduce the master by dressing like that? How dare you talk back to me!”

She grabbed a filthy rag from the table and lunged, aiming for my face.

"Cleaners do the dirty work! Don't you forget it!"

I slapped her hand away. The force sent her staggering back. Dirty water splashed onto the priceless Persian rug.

She stared, shocked that I'd fought back.

I glanced down at myself. A day of driving. Wrinkled jeans and a white t-shirt. Messy hair. I didn't exactly look like royalty.

But when I looked back up, the ice in my eyes could have frozen over hell.

"I am the daughter of this house. Aria Moretti." Each word was a shard of ice.

"And that," I pointed to the custom Chanel robe she was wearing, "is my mother's." My voice was terrifyingly calm. "Take it off, have it cleaned, and get the hell out of my penthouse."