Taming The Mafia Princess

Diana's POV 

If life wanted to kill me, it could at least buy me flowers first. Instead, it chose to attack me with an empty gas cylinder at six-thirty in the morning.

"Not today... please!" I groaned, twisting the stove knob for the fifth time.

Click. Click. Click. Nothing.

I tried once more, applying extra pressure as if my willpower could force the gas out of thin air.

Still nothing!

The suffocating silence coming from the cold burner was louder than any alarm clock. Behind me, the dining room was already sliding into absolute, chaotic warfare.

"Diana!" Vlad screamed from the table, his chair scraping violently against the floor. "Matei stole my sausage!"

"I did not, stupid!" Matei protested, his cheeks puffed out like a hamster's with his mouth overflowing with food. 

"You literally have one in your mouth right now!"

"I was protecting it!" Matei shot back, abandoning his plate entirely and running around the table. Vlad chased him around with a metal fork and knife in hand like a mini gladiator.

"Protecting it from who?!"

"From you!"

I pinched the bridge of my nose, shutting my eyes tightly. Five minutes. All I had asked the universe for was five peaceful minutes to fry eggs and drink coffee. Was that truly too much to ask? Younger brothers were an absolute, relentless pain in the ass…

Mom walked into the kitchen, tying her faded apron around her waist before pulling a silk bonnet over her hair. She walked past me and headed for the stove, attempting to light the burner herself, but the burner remained stubbornly dead. She frowned, letting out a heavy, weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire world.

"The gas is finished? So soon?"

Dad leaned against the wooden doorframe, fresh grease stains already decorating his work overalls. He had been active since five in the evening working down at the auto shop—he was a mechanic, after all.

"I'll take the tank down and refill it after my shift, my dear," Dad offered, wiping his oil-stained hands on a rag.

Mom looked up at him, her green eyes soft with a painful sadness. "We don't have enough cash left in the jar to cover a refill until next week, Mihai."

The kitchen fell instantly silent. Not a comfortable, cozy silence—the heavy, suffocating kind that makes your chest ache.

Without saying a word, I quietly unzipped my handbag resting on the counter and pulled out the small paper envelope hidden inside. 

Every single euro tucked into that envelope had a sacred purpose. My university tuition. My textbook fees. My future.

I counted out enough bills for a full gas tank, sliding the money across the counter toward my father…

Dad glanced at the cash and immediately shook his head, pushing it right back. "No. Take it back, Diana. That is for your school."

"Papa," I smiled, forcing a lighthearted tone to mask the sharp pain in my chest. "It's just money."

But we both knew it wasn't just money. It meant another week of skipping lunch in the university cafeteria. Another week of walking three miles across Milan to campus instead of taking the bus. Another week of pretending everything was completely fine.

Tears gathered in the corners of Mom's eyes. I hated seeing her cry more than anything in the world. "You know it's not right taking your savings, Miss D..."

"I know, Mommy," I murmured, stepping forward to press a warm kiss against her cheek before she could start arguing. "And one day, I swear I'm going to give you both the world. I'll spoil you and my brothers so much you'll never have to worry about a single thing ever again. I swear it on my life."

That earned a rich laugh from Dad. He grinned from ear to ear, pulling Mom into a tight side-hug. We might not have much in terms of bank accounts, but in our house, laughter was richer than gold….

—

An hour later, after dropping the twins off at their school gates, I navigated through the bustling streets of Milan. My heavy backpack swung over one shoulder while my black waitress apron remained neatly folded inside it.

Morning shift at the restaurant first. University lectures followed in the afternoon. Late-night study sessions after midnight. Then, if life remembered I actually existed, I managed to snatch a few hours of sleep before repeating the cycle all over again.

The brass bell above the door chimed merrily as I stepped inside.

La Magnolia.

It wasn't a Michelin-star establishment, nor was it famous among tourists, but it smelled like freshly ground espresso beans, warm garlic bread, and home…

"You're two minutes early, Diana," Marco, the owner and my boss, called out from behind the espresso machine, wiping down the stainless steel steam wand.

I let out a soft laugh, pulling my apron out. 

"So you're actually complaining about punctuality now?"

"I'm Italian," Marco shot back with a dramatic shrug, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. "Complaining is strictly part of my job description. It's what we do best."

I rolled my eyes playfully. "Fair enough."

"Anyway, congratulations—you've officially been promoted," Marco added, handing me an order pad and a pen.

"Oh? To what? Head waitress?"

"No, to a professional trouble magnet."

"I've held that title for five years, Marco. Try again."

He chuckled, gesturing with his chin toward the sunlit front window. 

"Table seven. A lovely couple just sat down."

I glanced over. A well-dressed man and woman in their early thirties were settling into the booth. The woman was wearing oversized dark Saint Laurent sunglasses indoors. But I have a question, why do wealthy people wear shades inside a dimly lit restaurant? 

The man wore a gold watch that probably cost more than our entire apartment building; if I sold it, it could cover my tuition for the next three years.

Rich people. Wonderful. Time to bear with their lovely attitudes…

I plastered on my best, polished customer-service smile and strolled over to their table.

"Good morning," I greeted politely, holding my pad ready. "Welcome to La Magnolia. My name is Diana, and I'll be taking care of you today."

The man looked up from his leather menu, his eyes widening as he took my features in. A slow, creepy smile spread across his face, making my skin crawl instantly.

"Well, well..." he purred, leaning back. "Aren't you just the prettiest little waitress I've ever seen?"

Before I could even think of a polite response, the woman sitting opposite him whipped her head toward me, eyeing me up and down with intense disgust. She had perfectly painted red lips, heavy foundation, and dramatic false lashes that fluttered with annoyance.

"So this is the kind of staff they hire here now," she sneered, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

I completely ignored her. Years in customer service had taught me that silence was far more effective than engaging with insecure customers.

"What can I get started for you today, sir?" I asked calmly, keeping my gaze professional.

The man didn't even glance down at his menu. "I'll have whatever the redheaded beauty recommends."

The woman slammed her menu shut against the table with a sharp crack. "I'll just have a bottle of water," she snapped, her angry glare locking back onto me. "And try not to flirt with my boyfriend. You waitresses always have a cheap knack for trying to snatch other people's men."

I blinked, taking a slow breath to keep myself from bursting out laughing. Lady, please. I am trying to pay my bills, not steal your ugly boyfriend.

"I assure you, ma'am, your relationship is the absolute last thing on my mind," I replied smoothly.

She scoffed, crossing her arms tightly. "We'll see about that."

I scribbled down the order, stepping back to return to the counter. I had barely taken a single step away from the table when it happened…

A firm, heavy hand landed heavily on my backside with a loud, resounding smack.

My entire body froze instantly. Every muscle in my spine locked up. What the actual fuck?

The surrounding tables fell dead silent.

Slowly... very slowly... I turned on my heel.

The man was leaning back in his leather booth, a shameless, arrogant grin plastered across his face. "Don't look so offended, sweetheart," he winked, tapping his fingers on the table. "How about you drop the attitude and write your phone number on that pad instead?"

My fingers tightened around the order pad until my knuckles turned white.

"You disgust me," I said, my voice dropping into a dangerously quiet tone as my fists clenched at my sides, releasing the rage I had been trying so hard to suppress all morning.

The man laughed carelessly. His girlfriend sat back, smirking as if this were completely normal.

Something inside my brain snapped in two. Before my mind could intervene to stop me, my right fist flew straight toward his jaw.