The Don’s Obedient Doll Was Never Real

Everyone in the underworld knew Rosalie Thorne, the "Thorn Principessa" of the North. Wild, rebellious, notorious.

Street racing, high-stakes gambling, guns, and drinking, she had mastered them all. The rose-and-thorn tattoo on the nape of her neck drove countless men wild.

But what they didn't know was that for Rocco, the new mob boss of the South, a single sentence, "I prefer a more obedient woman," was all it took.

At his word, I had the tattoo lasered off and swapped my leathers for long, conservative dresses.

I am Rosalie. For five years, I hid my identity and played the porcelain doll Rocco wanted.

Until the night he eliminated all his rivals and was crowned the new Don of the South.

That was when he let his men bow to another woman, hailing her as their "Donna."

I watched Rocco. The same hands that had just executed a traitor were now gently placing a pair of red high heels on the feet of his adoptive sister, Vivian.

"Rosalie, she has a temper. She'll make a scene if she doesn't get the title."

"You're the good one, the obedient one. Just let her have this."

That day, I walked straight out into the rain and never looked back.

I was never truly obedient. I just made myself smaller for him.

My family had already chosen a husband for me.

They had been waiting five years, just for me to say yes.

...

The night Rocco was crowned Don, he pinned me to the bed and took me with a rough hunger, driving into me until I was breathless and spent.

Only when I was on the verge of fainting did he finally let me go.

I lay limp in the sheets, my body trembling with a satisfying ache.

On the floor, my expensive lace lingerie lay in shreds.

"Rocco," my voice was raw and hoarse. "Are you trying to kill me?"

He had the sated look of a predator after a feast, and a terrifyingly unfamiliar air about him.

Rocco leaned against the headboard, clipping an expensive Cuban cigar.

Blue smoke curled upwards, blurring his deep, cold eyes.

"Rosalie, you've been with me for five years now, haven't you?"

He blew out a ring of smoke. "Back then, when I was fighting my way to the top, I needed someone quiet and submissive, like you."

"But now, being too obedient and weak... it's boring."

He turned his head, his eyes scanning my bare shoulders. "You're missing that wild streak. It's boring."

His tone was teasing, but a chill ran down my spine.

He said I lacked wildness.

So who had the wildness he craved now?

I suppressed the bitter bile rising in my throat and reached for the cigar between his fingers, taking a hard drag.

I hadn't touched one in so long. The harsh tobacco smoke seared my lungs, and I coughed until the corners of my eyes were red.

Rocco frowned, snatching the cigar back. His fingertips, cool against my skin, wiped away a tear from the corner of my eye.

"That's enough. Don't try so hard. It doesn't suit you."

My hand froze in mid-air.

For a moment, I couldn't tell if the bitterness in my throat was from the smoke or from my own heart.

"Rocco, I don't understand. I thought you liked obedient women."

He blew out a ring of smoke. The dim wall sconce cast his features in a cruel, heartless light.

"That was then. Now, I'm the King of the South. A woman who is too docile and well-behaved is is simply unpresentable."

"The woman by my side needs to be a wildfire, a loaded gun ready to go off at any moment."

He paused, a fiery obsession I'd never seen before flickering in his eyes.

"Someone like Vivian... is nice."

His voice was calm, but it hurt me.

Unpresentable?

To please him, I gave up cigars, gave up the thrill of the card table. A single "I don't like tattoos" from him had me erasing the symbol of my honor until nothing was left.

I chiseled away pieces of myself, bone and soul, to fit the mold he wanted.

And now he was telling me he'd outgrown that mold.

As for Vivian, the name was a nail driven into my heart.

Three years ago, Rocco brought her into his private club, a woman in a slit red dress, her hair a wild cascade of curls.

I remember it clearly. His voice was uncharacteristically gentle, his eyes crinkling with a smile. "Rosalie, this is Vivian, my adoptive sister. She just got back from Europe."

Vivian, her nails a garish scarlet, let out a disdainful laugh as she scanned me from head to toe.

"Rocco always said he kept a little saint at home. So that's you."

"You look so boring. Like a glass of water."

Rocco just ruffled her hair affectionately and turned to me.

"Vivian has been wild since she was a kid. She speaks her mind. You're older, so just be patient with her."

Back then, I just nodded meekly, but my heart felt like it had been stung.

He had never defended me like that in front of others.

The memory overlapped with the present.

I looked at Rocco's cold face, finally unable to stop myself from challenging him.

"Rocco, if she's so wonderful..."

Before I could finish, Rocco's private phone rang.

The custom ringtone. I didn't have to guess who it was.

He immediately held up a hand, silencing me.

A second later, he answered, his cold demeanor melting into raw urgency.

"What? Vivian fell at the stables?"

"I'm coming over right now."