C09
After all, as a mother, the pain of losing a child is something no one else can truly understand. The loss of Antonia had left a wound too deep to heal and my mom carried that burden every day. I couldn’t possibly persuade her to let go of the past when I myself hadn’t endured her suffering. I realized that all I could do was respect her grief
and support her in my own way.
Once I could walk again, my dad approached my mom, his voice unusually soft as he asked for permission to take me out. She hesitated at first, her gaze flicking from me to him as though weighing the risk. After a long pause, she finally gave a reluctant nod.
My dad took me back to the restaurant where everything had started. I was a little nervous as we approached the
entrance.
The moment we stepped inside, the scene waiting for us was startling. Frankie and his entire crew were already kneeling on the floor, their heads bowed in submission. The scent of fear hung thick in the air. Their voices rose in unison as they shouted, “Miss Lucia, we were wrong! Please punish us!”
Next to each person was a wooden stick, each one thick as a wrist. The sight was both absurd and intimidating, as though they had prepared for a medieval execution. My dad stood silently beside me, his expression unreadable, but I noticed the faintest hint of satisfaction in his eyes.
I didn’t wait for anyone to explain. Instead, I grabbed one of the sticks, the rough wood biting into my palm and walked straight toward Frankie. Without a word, I swung it hard against his calf. The crack of wood meeting flesh echoed sharply in the silent room.
Frankie groaned in pain but clenched his teeth, refusing to cry out. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and
he lowered his head further, his voice trembling slightly as he said, “I was wrong and didn’t recognize you, Miss. You
can punish me as much as you see fit!”
I stared at him coldly, my grip tightening on the stick. “Frankie, you used to carry me around when I was little. I
can’t just let this go entirely, but beating you to death would be too much. Giving back the blow you dealt me–isn’t
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Don’t Mess with A Mafia Princess
Frankie nodded quickly, his face pale and glistening with cold sweat. “It’s fair, Miss! Completely fair!”
For a moment, I considered striking him again. The anger inside me hadn’t fully subsided, but something about his trembling form, about the loyalty he had shown my dad all these years, made me pause. With a sigh, I let the stick fall to the floor, the clatter loud in the tense silence.
Instead, I turned my gaze toward the burly man who had tried to make me his mistress. He knelt a few feet away, his legs shaking so violently that they barely supported his weight. Without hesitation, I picked up a machete from the table nearby and walked over to him.
His eyes widened in terror as I approached and when I raised the machete, he flinched so hard that he nearly toppled over. With lightning speed, I slammed the blade into the floor, the tip landing just an inch in front of his
crotch.
“Didn’t you want to make me your mistress?” I said, my tone icy and dripping with contempt.
The man’s face turned ashen and he collapsed onto the floor, trembling like a pile of mud. “Miss Lucia, I’ll never do such a thing again… please, have mercy!” His voice was barely a whisper, thick with fear.
Beside him, his wife fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face as she pleaded, “Please, Miss Lucia, spare him! He was wrong, but he’s still my husband. Please, don’t take him from me…”
I stared at her, a strange pang of sorrow twisting in my chest. How could she defend him, knowing full well he had intended to cheat on her? Was this what adult marriages were like–tolerating betrayal, accepting flaws too grave to ignore? The thought left a bitter taste in my mouth, but I quickly pushed it aside.
Their lives, their choices, weren’t my concern. I wasn’t here just to punish them—I had a far more pressing matter
to address.
Clearing my throat, I raised my voice so everyone could hear. “I’ll spare your lives, but there’s one condition: tell
me where Vincent is.”
At the mention of Vincent, a murmur rippled through the group. Frankie looked up at me, fear still etched into his features, but there was also genuine confusion in his eyes. “Miss, we don’t know where he ran off to. If we did, we’d have already caught him and hacked him into pieces for you!”
I narrowed my eyes, my fingers tightening around the handle of the machete. Slowly, I lifted it and placed the blade against Frankie’s shoulder. The sharp metal gleamed under the dim lighting and I tilted my head slightly, feigning amusement. “Well, that’s too bad,” I said, “I’ll have to chop off one of your arms as your apology, then. I was lucky because my dad is your boss. If Vincent had brought another girl here–a regular girl–you would’ve robbed
her blind, wouldn’t you?”
As I spoke, I raised the machete slightly, as if preparing to swing it down.
Frankie’s face turned the color of chalk and he began trembling uncontrollably. “Spare me, Miss! I’ll talk–okay? I’ll talk!” he cried out desperately, his voice cracking.
I smirked, satisfied and withdrew the machete. “Go on, then.”
Frankie, drenched in sweat, wiped his face with a trembling hand before stammering out the entire story. The more he spoke, the clearer the picture became. My dad stood silently behind me the whole time, his expression unreadable, though I caught the faintest glimmer of approval in his eyes. When Frankie finished his account, my dad gave me a thumb–up and said, “You remind me of myself when I first became a mob boss.”
From Frankie’s explanation, I finally pieced together how I’d been scammed.
It turned out Vincent wasn’t just an opportunist–he was a professional con artist. I wasn’t the first girl he’d lured into his schemes. He specifically targeted wealthy girls, relying on their shame to keep them silent. He would lure them in, take compromising photos and blackmail them. Most of the girls chose to pay quietly rather than face the humiliation of exposing him.
But Vincent hadn’t expected me to be different. Despite the luxury car, the designer clothes and the mansion I
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Don’t Mess with A Mafia Princess
lived in, I was far from wealthy in my own right. My dad had always spoiled me with things, but never money. He was too cautious, too wary of people like Vincent and now I understood why.
