Who Wants to Steal the Mafia Donna's Rose Garden?

I'd hidden the fact that I was Donna of the Mancuso family so I could focus on keeping my grandmother's heirloom roses alive.

I never expected my neighbors to come looking for a fight they couldn't win.

I'd just come back from watering the roses when my phone blew up.

A woman named Evelyn Langford had tagged me in the WhatsApp group chat.

"Hey, newcomer at the end of Rose Lane, why are you keeping that huge rose garden all to yourself? Mr. Langford's reelection campaign starts next week and runs until the June primary. We always hold the events in the rose garden.

"The previous owner let us use it for free, but if that bothers you, we can pay you $20 per event. That adds up to a few hundred dollars over the spring! You should be thrilled."

I let out an incredulous laugh.

A few hundred dollars?

The gardener alone cost me $4,000 a month. And I'd paid six point eight million dollars for the property.

I typed back two words. "No chance!"

Less than ten minutes later, Evelyn was back.

"How cheap!" She sent a mocking emoji and kept going. "The previous owner let us use it for free. We're only offering to pay because we're nice.

"What's the fun in looking at flowers all by yourself? Don't ruin our campaign tradition just because you're selfish!"

I gripped my phone tighter, and my other hand went to my waist on instinct, to where I used to keep my gun.

My hand closed on nothing. I took a deep breath and forced down the urge to kill.

Before I came to Los Angeles, I'd sworn to stay out of the Mafia world and never spill blood on the West Coast.

I loosened my white-knuckled grip on the phone and tried to reason with Evelyn like a civilized adult.

"First, this rose garden is my private property, and I have the deed to prove it. Second, $20 per event? That wouldn't even cover a fraction of my property taxes."

I typed it out letter by letter, trying to keep my temper in check.

"Lastly, I don't want any of you ruining my rose garden."

That set Evelyn off completely.

She sent a long voice message, shrieking like a peacock. "Private property? Even if you've got the deed to the rose garden, you still have to follow the rules if you live in Los Angeles!

"Do you know how many people you'll offend by turning me down?

"My husband is James Langford, the county supervisor. He's the one who really runs things here!

"Holding the campaign in the rose garden is a tradition. What right do you have to say no?

"I don't know how a young single woman like you could afford a whole rose garden, but I'd bet your money isn't clean! Some fat slob must be keeping you."

My fingers shook with rage.

Before I could fire back, someone else chimed in.

"Ms. Mancuso, I think Mrs. Langford has a point."

I tapped his profile picture. It showed a middle-aged man with a fawning smile.

His name was John Hall. He was the community's property manager and the admin of the group chat.

"You shouldn't keep the whole rose garden to yourself. Lend it to the campaign. That's how we support each other in this community.

"When Mr. Walter owned it, we held Saturday night fundraising dinners and the supervisor's Sunday coffee hours in the rose garden.

"So I suggest you accept Mrs. Langford's offer."

I stared at the screen, and suddenly it all made sense.

This wasn't a negotiation. It was shameless emotional blackmail!

Evelyn was throwing her husband's power around, and that spineless property manager was helping her pressure me into giving in.

Evelyn posted again, "See? Even management is on our side."

She tagged John directly. "John, could you help me redesign the rose garden? I want romantic roses with baby's breath. It goes with everything."

John replied immediately. "Of course, Mrs. Langford. I'd do anything for you and Mr. Langford."

I took a deep breath and tossed my phone onto the sofa.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, a bamboo fence enclosed a small bed at the very back of the rose garden, where my grandmother's roses grew. Dozens of young plants had just put out purplish-red shoots, their leaf tips still curled. This was the make-or-break stage.

There was no way I was letting anyone disturb them now!

And I certainly wasn't going to hand my rose garden over to trash like them without a fight. I'd paid six point eight million dollars for it.