The Stomachless Princess

I was born with a lethal allergy to our Mafia family's signature golden narcotic.

My body treats the drug like battery acid, but my mother, the ruthless Boss of the Chicago Outfit, called my allergy a pathetic weakness.

She secretly laced my soup with the poison, convinced she could force my immunity and mold me into a perfect heir.

When my throat seized and I coughed up blood onto the dining table, my cowardly father just scolded me for disrespecting the Boss.

My mother locked me inside a reinforced bathroom, leaving me to suffocate as my airways rapidly swelled shut.

"The weak must suffer to become strong."

She stood outside the door, casually chatting with a rival Capo about how my torture was necessary, completely ignoring my desperate pleas for a medic.

Lying on the cold tiles, gasping for my last breath, I realized a horrifying truth.

As long as I held value as her pawn, as long as my body belonged to the Family, she would keep poisoning me until it finally killed me.

So, when I woke up in the underground clinic, I grabbed her massive stash of the lethal powder and swallowed it all dry.

I chose to burn through my own organs and permanently lose my stomach, annihilating my value forever, just so I could sell my broken shell to her deadliest rival.

Chapter 1

Anya's POV

The golden poison swirled into my soup like honey dissolving in tea, and my mother smiled.

One drop of Aurelia can kill a grown man. Half a gram liquefies internal organs within minutes. Our family's signature narcotic-the product that built our throne. I was born with a lethal intolerance to it. My body treats the stuff like battery acid poured straight into my veins.

But Donna Vittoria Rossi, the ruthless Boss of the Chicago Outfit, had never accepted a weakness she couldn't beat out of someone.

The spoon clinked against porcelain as she stirred. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each sound was a countdown, deliberate and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world to watch me decide between disobedience and death.

I had just spent seven days in our underground Mafia clinic, bleeding from my intestines because she laced my morning espresso with Aurelia powder, convinced she could brute-force my immunity.

She called my anaphylaxis a character flaw.

She said a Mafia Princess cannot be allergic to the very gold that built her throne.

The mahogany table stretched between us like a battlefield. Chandelier light caught the golden liquid in my bowl, making it shimmer. Beautiful. Lethal. The sweet chemical scent hit my nostrils, and my stomach-still raw from last week's hemorrhage-clenched into a fist.

My mother slid the bowl closer. The scrape of ceramic against wood echoed through the cathedral-silence of the dining hall.

"Eat."

One word. Not a request. Never a request.

My father, Silvio, shifted beside her. Her Consigliere. Her husband. Her echo.

He leaned toward me, voice low and pleading. "Just eat it, Anya. Do not disrespect the Boss."

I looked at the man who should have protected me. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

My hands remained in my lap. I would not reach for the spoon. I would not give her the satisfaction of watching me tremble.

She stood.

The silver serving tray crashed against the table with a sound like a gunshot. Armed Soldiers by the doors flinched. Crystal glasses wobbled. My mother's manicured fingers curled around the ladle, and for a moment I thought she might throw the entire tureen of poisoned soup at my face.

"Apologize," she hissed. "For your disrespect to this Family."

My father scrambled to his feet. He grabbed the ladle from her hand-not to stop her, never to stop her-and scooped more golden broth into my bowl. It splashed over the rim, staining the white tablecloth.

"Will a single spoonful kill you, Anya?" His face was red, veins bulging at his temples. "Are you going to tear this family apart over soup?"

The silence that followed was heavier than any answer.

I reached into my pocket. My fingers found the folded papers-the itemized hospital bills, the surgeon's invoice stamped CONFIDENTIAL, and a square of fabric cut from the clothes I'd worn when I vomited blood all over her Persian rug last week.

I dropped them on the table beside the spilled soup.

"Another hemorrhage will drain our laundered funds."

My voice came out flat. Dead. A thing scoured of all feeling.

My father stared at the blood-stained fabric. His mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out.

My mother didn't look at the blood. She didn't care about the blood. She cared about the defiance.

She seized the edge of the tablecloth and yanked.

Porcelain shattered. Crystal exploded. The heavy tureen of hot soup crashed to the marble floor in a wave of gold and white, splashing against my boots, pooling around the legs of her chair.

She paced. Her heels clicked against marble, back and forth, back and forth. "I lead this Family. I built this empire. And my own daughter-my own blood-refuses to consume the very product that made us untouchable."

She snapped her fingers.

A maid rushed forward from the corner where she'd been cowering. She placed a small bowl of plain white rice in front of me.

"Eat," my mother commanded.

I picked up my chopsticks. The rice was unadorned. Safe, at least by appearance.

I took a bite.

The moment the grains touched my tongue, a bitter chemical burn spread through my mouth. Sharp. Acrid. Unmistakable.

Aurelia. Ground into powder. Boiled into the rice water.

I bent forward and spat the food onto the floor.