Craving The Mafia's Touch.

Bianca POV.

The morning light filtered softly through the sheer curtains, casting a pale glow over the room. I sat before the antique vanity, fingers deftly combing through my blonde hair, the only real inheritance from my late mother. It was thick, silky, and shimmered like spun gold. As the brush slid smoothly through the strands, I caught my reflection in the mirror.

Nothing had changed. Not a line, not a wrinkle. I was still that goddamn gorgeous heiress. But inside? Inside felt hollow, empty..as if the world I once ruled was slowly crumbling beneath my feet.

I sighed, a sharp exhale that felt like the release of years of tension. Pushing back the swirl of dark thoughts, I stood up and adjusted the delicate lace of my dress, soft ivory silk embroidered with subtle silver threads. It was a dress made for a mafia woman, tailored perfectly to hug curves and command respect, a blend of elegance and lethal sophistication.

I padded quietly into the dining room, the soft swish of fabric brushing against my legs. My fingers reached instinctively for a grape from the crystal bowl. I popped it into my mouth, the burst of sweetness, a brief comfort.

My eyes fell on Mabel, my little sister. Innocent. Fragile. How had this child been marked to inherit the wreckage our father left behind? I walked to her, crouched down, and kissed her soft forehead.

“What’s wrong with her?” I asked myself silently.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, then asked, “Where’s Dad?”

Mabel pointed with a small finger toward the dark corridor.

With a deep breath, I walked toward the shadowed hallway, dread settling in my chest.

There he was, slumped against the wall, a cigarette loosely hanging from his lips, eyes glassy, drunk and disheveled. His murmurs were nothing but meaningless noise, a cruel reminder of what our mother had left behind.

I should have cried. But my mother had taught me well...hide your pain, swallow your tears. Show strength, always.

The phone rang sharply, slicing through the heavy silence. I moved quickly, answering.

“Razel?” I said, relief flooding me at the familiar voice, our personal keeper, loyal beyond reason, a living remnant of my mother’s fierce protection.

His voice was grim. “The Iron Vultures have invaded the Frankincense Treasure Port.”

The phone slipped from my fingers as I sank into a chair, the news hitting me like a freight train. My mother had built the SHE-Mafia empire brick by brick. Now, all that was left was chaos.

Our father had gambled everything away, leaving us with ruins instead of riches.

I felt a harsh sting of self-blame. I hadn’t been strong enough to carry on the legacy.

I swore, right then, never to let a man tear down my world again.

Fury ignited inside me like a wildfire. I raced to my room and pulled on the outfit my mother made for war, the armor of a SHE-Mafia woman.

The leather corset was tight and fierce, sculpting my body into a weapon. The black pants were sleek, the thigh-high boots clicked with authority as I moved.

I stared long at the framed photo of Mom on the wall, her eyes blazing with strength and defiance.

Pulling the key from the drawer, I unlocked the garage and brought out my private bike, the engine purring to life under my touch.

I rode hard, the wind whipping past me as I left SHEworld behind.

The massive gate loomed ahead, carved boldly with the words: “SHEworld — A Place Where Women Excel.”

Mom’s sculpted image stood proud beside it, a queen watching over her kingdom.

I hissed in disgust, thinking of our father, weak, broken. What place had a man like him in a city built by women?

I pushed the throttle harder, the bike roaring like a beast unleashed.

Finally, I pulled up at a colossal entrance guarded by shadows.

My heels hit the pavement with purpose, each step ringing like a challenge.

Suddenly....gunfire.

I froze, my face still calm, betraying no fear.

My Hand slid to the concealed pistol strapped to my thigh, a girl assassin’s secret.

A harsh voice barked, “Surrender now, or face the consequences.

I smirked, lifting my hands slowly.

“Stop hiding behind cowardice. Show yourself,” I shouted, voice ringing with ice.

Gunshots cracked again, and from the corner of my eye, I saw a barrel aiming straight at me.

In a flash, I drew my pistol, surrounded by four men.

I chuckled, a cold sound. “Y'all be a good boy. Let’s talk.”

They didn’t answer, only gestured for me to leave.

I asked, “And what if I don’t?”

They raised their guns, cold and unyielding.

Hands back in my pockets, I walked toward them, eyes sharp as daggers.

“I’m not here for boys,” I said. “I’m here for the man . .Dante Moretti.”

Laughter. Bitter, mocking.

One stepped closer, his hand sliding to my jaw.

“You can’t even say his name right.”

I leaned in, voice low and savage.

He didn’t get to respond. I grabbed his head and slammed it into the wall.

Quick as lightning, I shot the man behind me in the leg.

Bullets whizzed past my head as I dropped low, smiling.

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

A bullet caught one in the chest.

I ran, weaving through shadows, dodging the last man’s shots.

Empty. My pistol clicked out of bullets.

Thinking fast, I grabbed a stone and threw it, drawing his focus away.

I leapt up, poked one man’s eyes with a sharp heel.

He screamed and collapsed.

I stepped on him, feeling the sickening crunch beneath my boot.

Drawing a dagger, I dipped it in his blood and etched into his skin: Be warned.

Whispering fiercely, I said, “Go show this to Dante Moretti.”

Removing my heels, I watched the man scramble to his feet and flee.

Before he could get far, I fired one clean shot silenced him.

Helmet on, I mounted my bike and vanished into the night.

Unseen by me, this was only the beginning of Hell in a Cell.