Claimed by the Mafia King
“You’ve officially signed your own death certificate—with glitter pen. Maybe he’ll frame it.”
I flopped backward on the floor, arms spread like a crime scene outline, staring at the ceiling.
There was no secret trapdoor. No magical portal. Just me, stuck in my own stupidity.
And yet—because my brain is a traitor—there was this tiny, ridiculous spark inside me. It wasn't fear, not even regret. Something else.
Pride.
Like, the tiniest voice whispering: damn, girl, you really said that to him.
I sat up halfway, glaring at myself. “No. Stop it. We’re not doing that. Pride gets you killed—especially with a guy like Damiano. Pride gets you shoved into concrete shoes and thrown into a river.”
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