Bad Princess: A Mafia Romance

by N. E. Henderson

  While I’m still holding my phone, I shoot my dad a text, asking for a favor.

  Me: Will you and Mom keep Brooklyn tonight?”

  His reply is almost immediate. The old man must have been on it. He’s been addicted to some tennis game app. It irritates my mom that he’s on his phone more often than not.

  Dad: You really have to ask? Bring me my grandbaby.

  Dad: And whatever you did to piss off my wife, fix it. I’m tired of your mother biting my head off every time I say a goddamn word.

  “Are you ladies ready to head back or do you want to stay down here longer?”

  “I wanna go to the beach, Daddy,” Brooklyn says.

  “Baby, I’m not wearing the right shoes for sand. But I’m taking you to Nana and Pops’ soon. I bet if you want to go out on the water tomorrow, they would take you.” I suggest, knowing she loves getting to go out on their boat. Since the weather is warm, it’s the perfect time for Dad to do some fishing.

  “Yes!” she chirps as Sienna puts her back on the ground.

  Me: She’s going to have to get over whatever bullshit she has against the Caputos.

  Dad: I’m not touching that subject. You’re a grown man. You’ll make whatever choices you feel are right, but being on the outs with your mom is unacceptable. Fix it.

  Like it’s that fucking simple. He could be the voice of reason here, but by his text, he’s not going to get involved at all.

  “Why are you scowling?” Sienna questions.

  “I don’t scowl.” I shake my head. “My mother is upset with me and my dad is likely getting beat up over it.” She gives me a strange look, so I clarify. “Not literally. With her mouth is what I mean.”

  Dad: What time will you be here?

  Me: At Coney Island, but we’re wrapping it up, so probably by four.

  Sienna and Brooklyn start to head back, and I follow, still holding my phone, waiting for Dad’s next message to come through.

  “Is she mad at you or is your mom mad that I was at your house the other morning?” Si asks. She’s holding Brooklyn’s hand, swinging them back and forth. More warmth coats my chest over their simple ease with one another. Brooklyn has never been around another woman in my life outside my mother and Kennedy. I didn’t know how something like this would go over with her. I never imagined it would be this easy either.

  “Doesn’t matter. She’ll get over it, and when she gets to know you, she’ll feel different.”

  “Doubtful,” she says.

  Dad: Since you’re so close to Brighton Beach . . .

  Me: I’m sure bringing you Russian food is going to do a world of good for making Mom happy.

  Me: I’ll get it, but if you get caught, don’t rat me out to save your own ass.

  Dad: Never.

  Dad: You’re a good son.

  Dad’s love for Russian dumplings is not something that makes my mother happy. In fact, it’s possibly the one and only thing she loathes about her husband. Dad’s former boxing coach’s wife was from Russia and introduced them to him years ago.

  “I need to make one stop before we leave,” I announce, catching up to my girls. My girls? Where did that thought come from? I haven’t even slept with Sienna; well, not in the sense that I want to sleep with her, and until then, I can’t really consider her my anything. Brooklyn may think Si is my girlfriend, but she hasn’t actually consented to that yet.

  Tonight, I plan to change that.

  We walked from the Boardwalk over into the Russian community of Brighton Beach. There is one restaurant my father loves above all others he’s experienced, and being as they’re always packed, I called his order in on the trek over so we wouldn’t have to wait.

  As much as I’ve loved spending time with Sienna and Brooklyn together—and I have, more than I anticipated—I want alone time with Si. I need alone time with her. More than anything, I want to see exactly where this thing with her is going. My mind is on a constant loop at all hours of the day and night, Sienna taking up the majority of that time. I’m intrigued by her, but it’s more than that. I want to be in her space at all times, whether it’s holding her, teasing her, or sparring with her. I still can’t get that time with her in the gym out of my head. I’ve never faced off with a female, not even playing around.

  I know my strength and I’d never willingly hurt a woman, yet I find myself craving for her to be my opponent. That’s insane, but something tells me she can hold her own. She knocked me on my ass and that floored me. I don’t think I’ve ever been more surprised in my life, not even when Kennedy told me she was pregnant just before our high school graduation, and that has been the shock of a lifetime.

  “Why are we heading into enemy territory?” Sienna asks, caution in her tone, and that pauses my stride. Enemy territory? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Are there people here that don’t like her? Perhaps it’s her last name. Is this the type of thing I have to question now when I’m with her?

  She stops a few steps in front of me, turning to stare back. There is a beat of silence, and then her eyes widen like realization dawns. “You have no clue about our heritage, do you?”

  I arch an eyebrow, not opening my mouth. I don’t like it when someone looks at me like I’m stupid, and though it’s on the tip of my tongue, it’s better to keep that to myself. “Gang wars back in the day. Italians and Russians aren’t exactly on friendly terms here in the U.S. The only ethnic groups we dislike more than the Russians are the Irish, and the one we despise more than them are the Albanians, but that’s more recent than the decades stacked on top of decades of bloody history we have with the Russian and Irish communities.”

  “Can’t you people just get along?”

  Jesus, I do not understand hatred at all.

  “You people?” she spits. “Matteo, you’re either one of us or you’re not. There is no in between.” She sighs. “Dad was right. You were sheltered.”

  “Ever think maybe you should have been too?”

  Maybe Mom is right. Maybe I don’t belong in their world. That thought feels wrong and I have no idea why. It’s like I’m battling my moral compass. I know the things the Caputos have done and likely still do to a large extent are wrong, yet, I want inside Sienna’s world. I want to be her world.

  But why?

  Wrong is wrong.

  Murder and crime are illegal.

  Two wrongs will never make a right.

  I know all of these things. They are things my parents taught me. They are things I truly believe, and they are things that her life is full of. I still can’t walk away. I don’t want to walk away. I want to see all of this through.

  Even the thought of not ever seeing Sienna again feels like a weight so heavy my chest could cave in. I’ve had men that mirror my own power hit me square in the chest, punch me in the face and every inch of my body, yet the thought of Sienna not being in my life, even for a split second, hurts more than any amount of physical or emotional pain I’ve ever felt.

  “I was to an extent,” she responds, successfully jerking me from the internal war going on in my head. “I have seen things no kid ever should, but my parents, my dad, did everything within his power to keep a lot from my brothers and me. He even agreed with my mom to send me to a different school than Ren and Dom because I was the girl in the family, and they didn’t want anyone to know I existed. Not because they didn’t love me, and not because they cherished me more than my brothers. My mother grew up in a different time. To her, I imagine being female meant being the weak one, and she thought if I were away, even from my brothers, that I would grow up and want a different life.”

  “Yet you ended up square in the middle. Tony says you’re practically in charge of the entire family,” I admit, telling her part of my conversation with her father from last night.

  “Daddy is full of shit.” She laughs, and her face and eyes lighting up. Brooklyn giggles, obviously hearing the curse word. I can’t bring myself to call Si on that slip up in front of my daug
hter. “I do manage our family to an extent. I’m in charge of finance and marketing on certain businesses. But, Matteo, I am not the boss. And yes, I am square in the middle, which is exactly where I want to be. I’ve always wanted to be a part of this life, and not because of the stereotypical crap, you know? Though there is a lot of truth to it. It’s because I believe in my father’s vision.”

  “Which is what exactly?” I find myself asking, too curious not to inquire.

  “Not something that’s for your ears.” Her voice suddenly becomes serious; harder like that first night I saw her again in Raymond’s bar when she waltzed in and turned my world sideways. I hadn’t seen that side of Si again until right now. Her spine straightens, and I swear she grows an inch taller, looking every bit of what her last name represents.

  “My feet hurt,” Brooklyn whines. “Can we go to Nana and Pops’ now?”

  “Come here,” I call out.

  “I got her,” Sienna chimes, bending and scooping my daughter into her arms before I reach her.

  My eyes collide with Sienna’s when she looks at me, and I know she sees the silent questions blooming in my head.

  “I like you, Matteo.” Her voice is softer once more. “I like you more than I should, and more than I thought I would if I ever saw you again. Maybe I never stopped liking you and that’s my problem, but the thing is, you aren’t one of us.” My brows furrow. “By one of us,” she continues, “I don’t mean my family’s circle of . . . people connected. I mean my dad, my brothers, and me. That circle. Our inner circle. There are things I cannot and will not tell anyone outside of that circle.”

  “Don’t you have a grandfather that used to be the . . . you know?” The boss is what I didn’t say.

  Her face scrunches up with irritation, followed by what I’ve come to recognize as anger. She doesn’t like him. “Fuck that old coot,” she snarls.

  “Bad Si!” Brooklyn yells, drawing a wince out of Sienna, likely from the volume of my daughter’s voice so close to her ear.

  “Shit.” Another, more intense wince rolls off her. “Crap. I’m sorry,” she says, her head whipping around to my daughter. Disappointment in herself mars Sienna’s facial expression, and I hate that look on her. “Please never repeat that word. Okay?”

  Brooklyn purses her little lips and narrows her eyes. “Consequences,” she tries to say, but it comes out mumbled. It’s what I tell her when she does something worthy of punishment, and for some reason, it makes me laugh.

  “Yeah, of course, whatever you want,” Sienna rushes out.

  “Don’t tell that girl, whatever you want. She’s cunning. She’ll have you doing God knows what.” I’m not mad at all, though I hate when the f-bomb is dropped in front of my daughter. I’ve done it a couple of times, but I do try to refrain from cursing when Brooklyn is around, though I know I can’t shelter her from life. “Brooklyn, she isn’t used to curbing her grown-up words. Give Si a break, yeah?”

  That, ‘you’re a dumb shit’ look that Sienna graced me with minutes ago is the same expression staring back at me from my daughter. It makes me want to pinch and tickle them both at the same time. Shaking my head, I step forward, grasping Sienna’s face gently with my hands, and then I dip, leaning down and kissing her lips chastely. “If she doesn’t want to cut you a break, I will, babe.”

  “I really am sorry,” Si repeats.

  “Pay up.” Brooklyn flips her palm face up, waiting for one of us to place a dollar in her hand.

  Stepping back, I chuckle as I pull out my wallet. Snagging a bill from the money slot, I slap it in her hand as I slip my wallet back in my pocket. “That should cover the rest of the year. Deal?”

  “Matteo!” Sienna eyes the hundred-dollar bill and then her stunned eyes flick to mine. “How much do you think I cuss?”

  “Enough to pay my kid off.” I lift both brows, daring her to argue. Her lips thin out, but they don’t open. Glancing at Brooklyn, I restate my question, “So, we have a deal?”

  Her eyes are big and round, but finally, her head bobs and her loose, brown curls bounce. “Good. Let’s grab Pops’ food and get going.”

  We turn and I start to stride past them when I notice Sienna is suddenly standing like a statue. Following her gaze, it lands on a couple across the street, a ways down the block. The guy’s back is facing us, but the woman is visible with her sleek, blonde hair and colorful works of art displayed on her arms giving her away. Sasha Nikolayev.

  “You two don’t like each other, do you?” I know Si has an upcoming kickboxing match against her, but not all fighters that face off are enemies. Most of us genuinely like and respect each other.

  I recall weeks ago when Sasha walked in Mario’s Pizza joint that the two seemed at odds, but I didn’t really question it. Is it because the woman is Russian-American? Sienna said moments ago this is enemy territory. Do they really dislike one another because of some stupid gang history, or are these people still at some war that I know nothing about?

  “Ren,” she says in a whisper. Looking Sasha’s way once more, I notice the guy has turned and that’s when I see Lorenzo Caputo. “What’s he doing with her?”

  “Um . . . maybe they’re friends?” If I had to guess, he’s probably fucking her, but I don’t verbalize that thought. Something tells me it wouldn’t go over well.

  “Over my dead body,” she comes back with. “He’d never.” Her tone is adamant.

  “Not too long ago, I recall those lips of yours, which are now my lips,” I remind her, “being fused with Sasha’s brother’s. So, what’s this enemy stuff you were going on about? You didn’t act like he was the enemy then,” I grumble, getting slightly angry over that memory.

  “That was different.” She rolls her eyes then glances back in her twin’s direction. We both watch as they stride farther away from us. They aren’t holding hands, just walking side by side. For all I know, they are actually just friends even if Sienna looks disgusted by the thought.

  “It’s not, but I don’t want to continue this discussion. Come on,” I tell her, and then step in front of them. “Let’s grab the food and get out of here.”

  That motherfucker better not put his lips or his anything on her again. I may be laid back for the most part, but when I view something as mine, I’m selfish, and that thing in this case is her. She belongs to me now, even if it’s only for a short time, so that split second pissed me off beyond comprehension when I pictured her kissing someone else.

  I don’t understand why I want her as bad and deeply as I do.

  Chapter 35

  SIENNA

  Matteo’s parents live in a gated community one city over from my father’s house. When we arrived to drop Brooklyn off and the meal he picked up for his dad, I elected to stay in the vehicle. Matteo wasn’t happy, but he didn’t argue, which took me by surprise. I’m certain he’s a momma’s boy, so the fact that she doesn’t like me isn’t sitting well with him. He thinks if I’m around her then her opinion of me and my family will change. Maybe because it’s my birthday he’d rather save that battle for a different day.

  That’s the thing about being a Caputo that I understand—we aren’t liked by many. By most we’re feared, which I hate to an extent. I don’t like our family’s reputation, but it’s not something that will change overnight. I wasn’t lying when I told Matteo I believe in my father’s vision; one in which changes the way the American Mafia is viewed.

  Mafia.

  I hate that term. Not that Mafioso or Cosa Nostra are much better, but those are the real terms derived from the Sicilian organized criminals that came to America to extend their reach. My great-grandfather was part of that unit of immigrants who helped establish the original five families that ran anything from racketeering, smuggling dope, weapons, and I suspect women, to armed robbery, murder, prostitution, and the list goes on. It’ll twist your guts at how crude and cruel those men were.

  My dad’s father grew up among the old school generation of men, believing and thrivin
g on the same ideology. Rafe Caputo was molded to follow in his father’s footsteps and to continue his stronghold over the largest city in the United States. Still to this day, my grandfather only cares about power and getting off on the fear of others. He’s often nostalgic over the olden days. His way of thinking and doing business is archaic, and to this day, he still believes his way—the way things were done in the past—is the only way.

  Essentially, that old coot was a follower. He didn’t have a vision; he certainly didn’t have a passion for change. After grandfather’s stroke, my dad stepped up as the Caputo Boss, and that’s when the other four bosses began to drop like flies. In his first year, New Jersey’s boss disappeared, and still, twenty-eight years later, no one knows what happened to him. Two years after that, Philly’s boss committed suicide. That evil fuck was known for making his victims appear to have killed themselves.

  How ironic.

  A month before my mother’s murder, the Boston Boss dismembered his entire unit, cut tail, and moved out to the Pacific North West. It was rumored that the Feds were close to nailing him, but if that were the case, moving to the other side of the country wouldn’t have prevented them from arresting and putting him on trial, so . . .

  Then Mom’s life was taken. A week after her funeral, the fourth boss—the one that ran factions in Ontario and Montreal—was discovered dead. His beaten body was dumped in the middle of Times Square. It was evident he was tortured, but no one knows for how long. Pictures surfaced showing stab wounds, burns, and bullet holes on various parts of his body, the fatal wound being a shot between his eyes.

  After that, Dad spent a lot of his spare time making sure my brothers and me were trained in every form of martial arts. We even had a weapons specialist that taught us how to handle and use different guns. He’s the man that taught Dom about knives, and then my twin and me. Dom was never interested in them like Ren. Domenico’s weapon of choice has always been a handgun since the very first time he gripped one in his hand. I can still remember his face when he pulled the trigger. His eyes sparkled like I’d never seen before. Something inside of him changed that day, and only God knows if that was a good change or a bad one.