Chapter 2 Untitled Chapter

Dawn was still talking, but the words were just noise now.. All Carmella could see was her father's face.

"I'm going to give you one last chance," Carmella said. "Take that back."

"Or what? You'll cry? Run to your daddy? What's he going to do?  Oh wait he's already—"

Angela grabbed her arm. "Mellie. Don't. She's not worth it."

Carmella grabbed the nearest thing she could find, a stiletto under the chair and threw it. It hit Dawn in the face.

Dawn shrieked.

"You fucking—"

Carmella lunged. Angela held her back.

"Stop!" Angela shouted. "Mellie, stop!"

The room was chaos. Dawn was screaming curses. Lena and Tessa were pulling her back. Antonio was yelling.

Carmella fought against her grip. "Let me go! I'll—"

"You'll what?" Angela snapped. "She’s trying to rile you up. Don't be stupid."

She wanted to hit her. But Angela was right. She was being stupid.

She forced herself to breathe.

"You got lucky," Dawn spat from across the room. "Next time, I'll—"

"Next time," Carmella interrupted, "I'll aim for your head. Now shut up before I beat your ass again"

Antonio stepped between them. "That's enough! Both of you! Dawn, get out. Now. Go cool down. You're done for the night."

Dawn glared but didn't argue. She grabbed her bag and stormed out, Lena and Tessa followed.

The room fell quiet.

Carmella sank back on the couch, her heart still racing. Angela sat beside her, breathing hard.

"You could have let me beat her ass," Carmella said.

Angela sighed. "And then what? You'd feel better for ten minutes and then regret it. I know you, Mellie. You're not that person."

Carmella didn't answer. Because the truth was, she didn't know who she was anymore.

"Let's just go home," she said, packing her things.

They left through the back door. The night air hit  her face, cooler than she expected. The alley was dark. One lamp flickered above. It smelled like garbage and smoke.

Angela was still holding her arm, as if afraid she'd run back inside and finish what she started.

"I'm fine," Carmella said. "You can let go."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"You were really good tonight. The crowd loved you," Angela said, releasing her and trying to soften the tension.

"Everyone says that."

"Because it's true." Angela smiled. "I don***'***t know how you do it. You just... own the stage. I've been doing this for years and I still get nervous."

Carmella shrugged. "I don't think about it. I just go out there and do what I do. It's easier that way."

A figure stepped out of the shadows.

Carmella stopped.

It was him. The young man from the front row. He was close enough that she could smell his expensive cologne.

"I've been waiting for you." 

Carmella forced a smile. "Look, I'm flattered. But the show's over. Go home."

"I wasn't asking." His eyes moved down her body greedily. He reached for his pocket, his wallet, probably. Some men liked to wave cash around like it made them gods. "How about we go somewhere private?. I'll make it worth your while."

Carmella's smile turned cold. " How about no! Listen, boy. Let me give you some advice." She stepped closer, "You're young and handsome. You've probably never been told no in your life. But I'm not interested."

His face twisted. "What?"

"You heard me." She leaned back. "You're just a daddy's boy. I can smell it on you. All that money, and you still don***'***t know how to talk to a woman."

"Bitch," he spat. "You think you can—"

He grabbed her arm hard. His fingers dug into her skin.

Carmella kneed him between the legs.

He let out a cry and crumpled to the ground, clutching himself.

"That's for touching me without permission," Carmella said.

She grabbed Angela's arm. "Run!"

They ran.

They ran down the dark alley, their heels clicking against the pavement.

"You fucking bitch!" the young man's voice echoed behind them. "This isn't the end!"

But Carmella didn't look back.

They collapsed on  the couch in their apartment, panting.

"That was crazy, Mellie!" Angela gasped. "He could have hurt you!"

"He had it coming. Boy wouldn't just quit." Carmella kicked off her heels and rubbed her feet. "I hate men like that. They think because they have money, they can do whatever they want."

"What if he comes back? What if he brings more men next time?"

Carmella rolled her eyes. "You're so easily scared Angie. Don't worry, I'll talk to Antonio about him. He'll handle it."

Angela still looked worried. "Just... be careful, okay? Not everyone is as harmless as you think."

"Harmless?" Carmella laughed. "Baby, I'm the most dangerous thing in that club. You know that."

"I'm not joking." Angela sighed. "I just worry about you."

"Don't. I'm fine." Carmella leaned her head back on the couch. "But honestly, you could have let me beat Dawn's ass. That woman deserves everything she gets."

"She's not worth it. You know that."

"Yeah, yeah." Carmella stood and stretched. "I'm going to bed. I'm drained. See you in the morning."

"You too, babe."

Carmella walked into her room and collapsed on the bed. The sheets were cold and the room was dark. Outside, the city hummed with life.

She stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about Dawn's words.

• Does your father know how much of a whore you've become?

No. No. Her father had raised her better than this. He had taught her to be strong, to be independent, to never let anyone tell her who to be.

And then he'd died.

She closed her eyes. Immediately, she heard his voice. "You're a Russo, Carmella. We don't break. We don't beg. We stand our ground."

She'd stood her ground tonight. Against Dawn. Against the guy in the alley.

But not when it mattered. She left. Went to America. Chased a mother who never loved her. while her father was dying alone. She'd been too busy begging a woman who'd already made her choice to notice the voicemails. The missed calls. The way his voice had grown weaker each time she'd finally called back.

"I'm fine, tesorina mia. Don't worry about me."

She'd believed him. She'd been so selfish.

Salvatore

Salvatore Morello watched from the back of his Rolls Royce. The tinted window was a barrier between him and her.

The streetlight caught Carmella's face for just a moment. That wild, defiant expression as she kicked the Bianchi boy between the legs. Her red hair caught the light.

Twenty-four years old. Fiery. Fierce. Had no idea she belonged to him.

He smiled . Satisfaction crept through his chest.

"Don?" Marco, his third in command, glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "Should we step in?"

"No, let her be. She handled it."

"She just assaulted a Bianchi."

"Assaulted." Salvatore chuckled. "Is that what we're calling it? She defended herself. There's a difference."

Marco was quiet for a moment. "The Bianchi’s won't like this if they find out***."***

"If they find out. And even if they do, the Bianchis don't have the spine to do anything about it."*

Salvatore watched her disappear around the corner with her friend. He knew her apartment. He knew the crack in her ceiling she stared at every night before she fell asleep. He knew the exact shade of red her hair turned in the morning light.

He knew everything about her. She didn***'***t know a single thing about him.

Two years ago, he'd walked into that diner. It was a Friday. It was raining. He was in a bad mood, a deal had gone wrong, some idiot had crossed him, and Salvatore had spent the entire morning cleaning up a mess he shouldn't have had to clean.

He'd sat in the back corner. Ordered espresso. And then she'd appeared.

She was a waitress. No... she was too beautiful for that, too bright. Her hair was the color of fire, pulled back in a tight bun. Dark circles under her eyes, like she hadn't slept in days. But when she set down his espresso, she smiled.

Her smile captivated him, reaching all the way to her eyes. She moved through the room without a care in the world, looking right at him without an ounce of fear. She had no idea who he was, and that made him want to possess her completely.

"Enjoy your coffee, sir," she'd said.

And Salvatore, the most powerful man in Italy, had forgotten how to speak.

He'd found out everything about her within a week. Carmella Russo. Born to an American mother who abandoned her and a Sicilian father dying of cancer, which she didn’t know about until it was too late.

And he had claimed her. Right then and there.

He had his men trace her every move. From Brooklyn back to Sicily. They reported everything. Where she went. Who she talked to.

Then her father had died. She fell apart.

Salvatore had watched her spiral. The waitress job became a stripping job. The stripping job became a coping mechanism. She was doing it to feel anything other than the emptiness inside her.

He'd watched every performance. Never in person. If he saw her up close, if she smiled at him, he'd lose control. So he watched through the club's security footage. The Donatellos owed him favors. Access to their cameras was nothing.

He watched her move across the stage. Watched the men throw money at her as their eyes glaze over with lust.

He watched and felt nothing but cold rage.

They looked at what was his.

Some nights, he'd go to her apartment. He had the key. He'd sit in her bedroom and watch her sleep. She was beautiful when she was vulnerable. Peaceful in a way she never was during the day. Her red hair spread across the pillow like spilled wine. Her mouth slightly open. Her hand reaching for a someone who wasn't there.

He wanted to be that someone.

Some mornings, he'd sit in his car outside her apartment. He'd watch her window. Sometimes she'd open the curtains and stand there, still in her pajamas, looking out at the city with dead eyes.

He wanted to take that sadness away. He wanted to make her smile like she did that day in the diner. He wanted to be the reason she smiled.

He was done waiting.

"Should I deal with him?" Marco asked.

Salvatore's eyes flicked to the Bianchi boy still writhing on the ground. "No. I'll handle it myself."

He stepped out of the car. The boy looked up at him, his face pale with pain and fear.

"Don Morello," he stammered. 

Salvatore stood over him.

Salvatore crouched down. His hand shot out, grabbing the boy's jaw and squeezing until the boy whimpered.

"You touched her," Salvatore said. "You put your hands on what's mine."

The boy's eyes went wide. "Don Morello, I didn't know—"

Salvatore pulled out a knife. Pressed the tip against the boy's palm.

"You're going to forget her name," Salvatore said . "Forget her face. Forget you ever saw her. And when you go home tonight, you're going to tell your father that you made a mistake. Now the deal is off."

"My father will kill me—"

"No." Salvatore pressed the blade down. The boy screamed. Blood welled up around the knife. "I'll kill you. But first, I'll take everything your family owns. I'll make your father watch. And then, when he's broken, I'll let you watch him die."

He pulled the knife out. The boy gasped, clutching his hand.

"This is your reminder," Salvatore said, wiping the blade on the boy's shirt. "Every time you look at that scar, you'll remember. She's mine. You don't touch what's mine."

He straightened his cufflink. "Do we understand each other?"

The boy swallowed hard, tears streaming down his face. "Yes. Yes, sir. I understand."

Salvatore climbed back into the car. Marco pulled away.

"You have no idea who I am mia gattina," Salvatore murmured. "But you're going to learn."

The car sped through the city, his domain, built on fear and blood. And very soon, she’d be his queen