The Mafia King’s Queen

My father raised me to be a king.

Not a princess, not a pawn in some arranged marriage , not a pretty daughter paraded out for alliances . I was the only child of Alessandro D'Angelo, one the most feared mafia don, and he raised me to be his heir—his successor.

I was taught to shoot before I was taught to ride a bicycle. Taught to snap a man's wrist before I was taught to dance. By the age of thirteen, I had learned the names of all the great families and how to kill them best.

He turned me ruthless. He turned me deadly. He turned me unstoppable.

And yet, somehow, I was standing opposite Rocco De Luca—the most ruthless man in the underworld—and he was staring at me as if I were a puzzle he wished to disassemble.

The air was filled with the scent of sweat, blood, and whiskey.

Underground fight clubs existed—raw, unfiltered, and brutal. The warehouse, dimly lit, was full of it. The horde of men roared as fists landed against flesh, as bones cracked under sadistic force.

I was in the VIP section, watching with detached coolness. I wasn't here to be entertained. I was here on business.

The fight in the ring was almost upon them. One man, a heavily muscled warrior with a crooked nose and blood trickling down his chest, was staggered on his feet. His opponent, a man twice as big as him, was not kind. He landed a body-blowing uppercut, and the other man hit the ground with a hard thud, skull impacting the dirty mat.

The audience cheered.

Pathetic.

The weak did not deserve to live in this world. You learned to fight, or you learned to die. Basic rules, rules that I'd learned as a child.

I shifted my focus from the ring. My prey was in this club somewhere.

Rocco De Luca.

Second son of the De Luca family. The cruelest of the De Luca brothers. A man with no compassion, no doubt, and no conscience.

I'd never seen him before, but I knew the stories.

That he never let enemies live. That his methods of torture were the stuff of legend. That he felt nothing.

He had become even more infamous after his father's death, when Rafael De Luca took over their empire. While Rafael played the strategy game, Rocco played the blood game.

And now I was being compelled to work alongside him.

My dad had made it forcefully plain—this union with the De Luca clan was of the utmost importance. A cooperative effort to stamp out a mutual enemy.

Trust, however? That I was in no position to indulge in.

A shift to my left put my senses on high alarm. I stiffened, poised, but didn't reach for the gun buckled at my thigh just yet.

Because I knew him before I'd turned even half the way around.

Rocco De Luca.

He was leaning there, leaning comfortably against the metal railing of my VIP section as though he had the world at his fingertips. The bad lighting cast harsh shadows on his face, and he looked like something cut out of darkness itself.

Black button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, revealing his inked forearms. Strong jawline, dark stubble tracing his chin. And his eyes—cold, unreadable, dark brown that bordered on black.

The atmosphere between us shifted.

His mouth curled into a smirk that bordered on challenge.

"D'Angelo."

My hand encircled the glass of whiskey I hadn't been sipping. "De Luca."

"You're smaller than I expected you'd be."

"You're as annoying as I expected you'd be."

His smirk widened by a fraction. "I like a woman with bite."

I scowled at him. "And I don't like men who waste my time."

"Shall we get down to business?" I asked.

I sat back, sipping my whiskey. "In a hurry?" he asked.

"Not in the least," I said, but there was a glint in my eyes. "I just like to skip the chit-chat."

He smirked. "Too bad. I was looking forward to it."

There was a flash of something crossing his face—amusement, interest—but it vanished before I could name it.

"Your father hopes that we can work together," he mused. "What do you think?"

"An alliance is convenient for both of us," she continued. "This war that's coming up ahead is not just between small clans—it's going to catch fire. The smart ones have already aligned themselves."

"And you'd prefer to be on our side?"

"I'd prefer that we both be on the same one.".

He looked at me. I wasn't wrong. The tension in my world was building. The families that made the bad choices would be buried.

"And what do we get in return?" He asked.

"Resources. Connections. Power." I stared him straight in the eye, no blink. "The question is—do you know how to use them?"

He laughed. "You've got a big mouth on you, don't you?"

His expression didn't change, but I saw the way his fingers twitched , the tightening of his jaw by a fraction.

"Whiskey?" He asked holding his glass out to me.

I took the unused whiskey and dumped it, as the amber-coloured liquid poured onto the floor in front of and between us.

"I think I'd prefer poison."

The grin faded. His expression blanked.

Boom.

The entire building shook.

A deafening explosion burst out of the door, creating a shockwave within the club. The explosion hurled bottles off the bar, men stumbling backward. Screams tore through the air as flames and smoke engulfed the exit.

Gunfire. Screams. Pandemonium.

I reached for my gun, reacted before I had even processed the attack.

Bullets tore through skin. Masked men stormed in through the broken doors, rifles cocked. They moved swiftly, precisely—trained assassins, not rogue thugs.

One of my guards fell beside me, blood spreading around his head.

I crouched behind the bar, pulse pounding but fingers steady. Rocco was already moving, shooting back without hesitation. His men were behind him, but the ambush was brutal.

My ears rang. Smoke filled my lungs.

I glanced at Rocco.

He was already looking at me.

His expression was empty, but something sharp was in his eyes. Something threatening.

"Can hold your own?" he shouted over the gunfire.

I gritted my teeth. "You bet."

Another shot rocked the ring More dead bodies fell.

The attackers were closing in.

I spun around, pointed my gun, and—

A bullet tore through my shoulder.

Pain erupted through me.