The Mafia Devil's Princess
“You gave me bruises, silence, and a grave I had to claw my way out of and most of all, your son killed my daughter.”
His expression shifted—not regret, not remorse. Just more disdain.
“You think wearing a white coat makes you something now?” Desmond asked, sneering. “You’re still nothing. Just like your father. Always reaching for things above your station.”
“My father never sold me off to save his own skin!” I snapped, standing suddenly, my voice cracking in the small clinic room.
Desmond stood, too, slower but no less imposing.
“You’re a parasite,” he said coldly. “You latch on to powerful men. First my son, then Sebastian Novair—” he laughed bitterly, “and now what? A hospital job makes
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