The Mafia Princess
I’d never known art could feel like devotion.
Tonight was the gala. Something formal, something glittering. I was supposed to be thinking about the guest list, the speeches, the way Luca’s hand would find mine in the crowd. But my phone buzzed, and when I saw Gabby’s name, I answered with a grin.
“Hey, Missouri girl,” I teased, pinning one last curl behind my ear. “How’s the Midwest treating you?”
Gabby’s voice was soft, breathless. “GreenLee… I think I’m falling in love.”
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