Who Really Is the True Heiress?

I hid my identity as a Mafia heiress to live a quiet life. I never thought my new neighbors would be the ones to pick a fight they can’t win.

I'd just gotten back from the gallery when my phone started blowing up.

On the Nextdoor community forum, a woman named Brenda had @'d me.

"Hey, penthouse girl. You're single. What do you need a whole rooftop garden for? My husband's throwing a party. We'll be needing it starting tomorrow."

"Don't worry, we'll give you two hundred bucks a month for upkeep. You'll make a couple hundred for doing jack shit. You should be thrilled."

I stared at the screen. This was a joke.

Two hundred bucks?

My gardener alone costs three grand a month, not to mention the half a million I paid for the private deed.

I shot back two words: "Dream on."

Less than ten minutes later, Brenda was back.

"Ooh, feisty, are we?" she posted, with a laughing emoji. "Too good for two hundred bucks? Name your price, then. It's a waste on you, anyway."

"What's a single girl gonna do with it? Plant some flowers? Get a cat?"

My thumb hovered over the screen. I took a deep breath, pushing down the instincts my family drilled into me. I tried to handle it like a normal person.

"First, it's my private property. The title says so, loud and clear. Second, two hundred bucks doesn't even cover basic upkeep," I typed, my knuckles white. "And third, I don't need to 'let' anyone use it, because I'm using it. It's my private studio."

Brenda exploded.

She dropped a voice note, her voice shrill and grating. "Private property? Give me a break! You live in a luxury condo, you follow the HOA rules! My husband is Councilman Mark. He practically owns this district. Do you know how easy it would be for him to crush a nobody like you? It would be like stepping on an ant. Do you have any idea how many favors he's done for this community?"

"He just wants to use your garden for one party, to give back to the neighbors, and you're being this selfish?"

"I have to wonder how a single woman like you afforded a penthouse anyway. Bet it wasn't clean money."

I gripped my phone. Ice flooded my veins.

Just as I was about to fire back, the property manager, Mr. Peterson, chimed in.

"Ms. Ricci, I think Brenda has a point." His profile picture had a "Property Manager" certification badge underneath. "As members of this community, we should all contribute to neighborly harmony."

"Besides, you can't possibly use such a large garden space all by yourself. Lending it to other owners for community events is in the spirit of mutual support that the HOA has always advocated for."

"I suggest you seriously consider Brenda's proposal. A harmonious community takes effort from everyone."

I looked at the screen and saw it all clearly.

This wasn't a negotiation. This was a shakedown.

A pathetic woman throwing her husband's two-bit political power around, and a spineless, ass-kissing property manager, helping her try to shake me down.

Brenda posted again: "See? Even management is on our side! Mr. Peterson, could you please have your workers redecorate the garden tomorrow? I want to do a European theme."

"Of course, Brenda," Mr. Peterson replied instantly. "Anything for the prosperity of our community."

I took a deep breath and tossed my tablet onto the couch.

I didn't want trouble. My first solo exhibition was next month, and it was a critical time. But that didn't mean I was going to hand over my half-million-dollar slice of peace to this kind of trash.