From Maid to mafia bride

BRIDGET

A letter slips through the narrow space beneath my door while I sit on the couch of my apartment, a tiny canvas balanced in one hand and a brush in the other. The sound is soft but final, paper kissing tile like a verdict. I pause. Then I dip the brush back into the palette, soak it in red, and return to the rose blooming beneath my fingers. I paint carefully, petal by petal, until the color looks almost wet enough to bleed.

It has been a month since my father died, and I am alone in this world.

He was a good man in a bad life. Loyal to his capo. Faithful to a world that eats its own. While he lived, he made sure I never wanted for anything. He paid my tuition. He bought my supplies. He told me I belonged somewhere cleaner than the streets he walked. Now I am in my first year at university studying art, painting roses that feel heavier than they should.

When I was a child, I wanted to be a teacher. Then science failed me. Mathematics slipped through my fingers like sand. Painting did not. Painting took hold of me slowly, then all at once, until it became a hunger. Art makes me feel alive in a way nothing else does. My father saw that. He told me to follow it if my heart belonged nowhere else.

A month ago, a call shattered that promise.

My father was killed in Las Vegas. Shot straight through the heart. His body came back to California cold and silent, and I buried him with the help of uncles and cousins whose hands were all marked by the same life. Our family tree grows from mafia roots. Everyone is part of it. Everyone except me.

My father kept me away from that world. He never let me see it, only spoke of it in pieces. Hitmen. Soldiers. Loyalty. Blood. Underbosses. And above them all, the mafia king. The don.

He used to say they lived like royalty.

“They are the ones who shed blood but eat with a golden spoon.”

I laughed every time. I never understood what he meant. I told myself I never would understand their life. It was just a story for me.

I finish the last touch on the rose, deepening the shadows with black acrylic. The flower looks dangerous now. Alive. I place the brush into the glass of water and stand.

“Wow,” I whisper to myself. “It turned out great.”

I cross the room and pick up the letter. The envelope is thick, expensive. A gold stamp seals it at the bottom.

The Corrupted Royals Crime Famiglia.

My fingers trace the imprint before I can stop myself. Something in me recognizes it. My chest tightens. I tear the envelope open and pull out the letter, reading before fear can catch up.

To Bridget Rossi,

Your father, Franco Rossi, left behind more than memories. He left behind an obligation that now rests in careful hands.

What happened to him was unfortunate. You have my condolences. Still, debts such as his are not erased by grief or time. They endure, waiting for the right moment to be acknowledged.

I have watched you carry your life with admirable resolve. You were never as invisible as you believed.

It is only fair that you are given the chance to do the same with his unfinished business.

You will be in Las Vegas tomorrow evening so we may speak privately about what is owed and what may be offered in return.

Eight o’clock. The Bellagio Hotel.

I trust you will come willingly. You always did understand the weight of silence.

Regards, Adriano De Costa

My breath leaves me all at once.

Adriano De Costa. The boss of the boss. He has plenty of capo below him. The man my father served for years. The danger he warned me about without ever naming. My hands tremble as I lower the paper.

I will have to go.

I do not know how much my father owed, but I will repay it. I will work. I will borrow. I will bleed if I have to. Anything is better than refusing.

My thoughts blur and stall. These people do not ask twice. They watch. They wait. The Corrupted Royals already have their eyes on me.

I sink back onto the couch and stare at the floor, counting the seconds as they pass like a slow execution. Las Vegas is six hours by road. I do not own a car. Buses make me sick. Flying is faster.

I reach for my phone.

The earliest flight leaves at seven in the morning. Los Angeles to Las Vegas. Economy class. One hour and ten minutes in the air. Departure at 7:00 a.m. Arrival at 8:10 a.m. Gate assignment pending. I book it before I can talk myself out of it.

I pull my suitcase from under the bed. Pink. Leftover from a girls’ trip five months ago, from a life that feels borrowed now. I pack two pairs of jeans, two shirts, two formal dresses, and a pair of stilettos. Nothing extra. I am not going on vacation. I will come back as soon as I know the price of my father’s debt.

I close the suitcase and return to the couch. I pour myself a glass of vodka and drink it slowly, the burn grounding me.

The room grows quiet. Too quiet.

“Spread wide.”

Adriano De Costa stands too close. He pins my wrists above my head, the wall cold against my back. His voice is low and cold.

“This is the only way you can repay the debt.”

His breath ghosts my ear. I shiver.

My eyes snap open.

I am alone in my apartment. My heart races. Sweat clings to my skin. The glass on the table rattles as my hand shakes.

I press my palm to my chest and breathe.

This is my worst nightmare.

And tomorrow, I fly straight into it.

I am Bridget Rossi and this is the beginning of my story…