The Mafia Queen's Vengeance Rise of the Ferrante Heir

"Camilla, get to the kitchen and start dinner. It's late, and everyone's hungry." Donna Agata's voice cut through the sitting room like a dull blade, more habit than authority behind it.

I didn't spare her a glance. Instead, I turned to Rosalia with a smile so polished it could have graced the cover of a society page. "Rosalia, you and Enzo grew up together in the old neighborhood. I imagine you used to eat here all the time back then?"

"Of course!" Rosalia's voice lilted with practiced sweetness. "Back in those days, Enzo and I had practically every meal together. His mother's cooking, Sunday dinners, all of it."

"So after all those years away, you must really miss Donna Agata's cooking." I let my gaze drift to my mother-in-law, my tone warm as honey poured over a razor. "Mamma, shouldn't you get started on dinner for your guest? She's come such a long way."

I crossed the room, settled into the leather sofa, and reached for the remote. The television hummed to life, filling the silence I'd left behind me. I could feel the temperature in the room shift, the quiet recalibration of everyone's expectations.

It didn't take long. Enzo appeared beside me within minutes, jaw tight, irritation simmering behind his dark eyes. "How could you make my mother cook? You know her health isn't what it used to be." His voice dropped low, meant to sound commanding but landing somewhere closer to petulant. "Get up and handle dinner."

I widened my eyes, letting just the right amount of concern bleed through. "Mamma, you're unwell? Is it serious? Why didn't anyone tell me? We should call Dr. Ferraro immediately."

Donna Agata's face twisted. "Who's unwell? There's nothing wrong with me! Don't you dare try to put a curse on this house with that kind of talk."

"Then why don't you want to cook for Rosalia?" I tilted my head, amusement threading through every syllable. "You don't feel like it?"

The old woman's expression curdled like milk left in the Sicilian sun. Her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. "Who said I wouldn't cook?"

She pushed herself up from her chair and marched toward the kitchen with the stiff pride of a woman who still believed the Mancini name alone could fill a room. For the next two hours, the sounds of clattering pots and sizzling oil drifted through the estate. The smell of garlic and braised meat filled the hallways, and for a moment, the house almost felt like a home that functioned on something other than resentment.

When the table was finally set, Nicoletta took Rosalia by the arm and guided her into my chair at the head of the family side. The girl didn't even look at me as she did it. "Sis, Rosalia is our guest. You don't mind giving up your spot, right?"

Donna Agata materialized beside me, pressing a bowl into my hands the way one might hand scraps to a stray. "If sitting at the edge of the table is uncomfortable for you, why don't you take your plate to the kitchen? You can eat there. And while you're at it, clean up a bit."

I stared at the bowl in my hands. So now I wasn't even permitted at the table. The table I paid for. In the house my family's money kept standing. Eating food bought with tribute from Ferrante-controlled fronts.

I set the bowl down on the counter with a quiet, deliberate click.

"No need. You all enjoy yourselves." My voice was flat, stripped of everything but finality. "A friend invited me out tonight. I'll eat with them."

Enzo's brow furrowed, that familiar crease of irritation forming between his eyes. "We're leaving for the coastal villa tomorrow, and you're still going out? Have you packed your things yet?"

"Don't you have hands?" I met his gaze without flinching. "Pack your own bags, Enzo."

The silence that followed was exquisite. He stood there, mouth half-open, as though the concept of self-sufficiency had short-circuited something fundamental in his brain. I didn't wait for a recovery. I picked up my coat and walked out the front door.