TaraThe rain has fallen silent, but the night, for its part, hasn't finished speaking.I dress slowly, a slit black dress, heels as sharp as a threat.Every gesture is a silent response to his absence.He wanted to leave. Let him leave.As for me, I'm going to reign.On the vanity, the wedding ring still gleams.I spin it between my fingers, then dial a number on the red phone he keeps for business.The families' little black book.The names that govern Chicago from the shadows.The voices answer, polite, hesitant.I don't speak long.A few words are enough:"Tonight, at my place, your queen. No men, no guards."In thirty minutes, black cars glide past the manor.The hall lights up with a new radiance, a blend of opulence and danger.Eight heiresses, eight faces of a single empire.They are young, beautiful, and each carries in their eyes the trace of power either bequeathed to them or stolen.---— Valentina Moretti: The She-Wolf of Little ItalyDaughter of the Moretti clan's godfat
Zuletzt aktualisiert : 2026-03-19 Mehr lesen