The Devil's Heiress

Valentina

The leather glove hits my face, sending a wave of pain through my cheekbone and nose. I blink quickly to clear the sting and step back, balancing on my toes, ready for the next punch. The gym smells like sweat and old leather, a scent that sticks to you for hours. The crowd is loud and excited, their shouts blending into a background hum.

Sweat drips from my forehead into my eyes, the sting overshadowed by the pain in my probably fractured ribs. My left eye is swelling, and I feel my pulse throbbing in my cheek and eyelid from a hit I didn't block.

"End her!" someone yells from my left. My opponent steps forward, bloodied but not giving up. I can't believe she's still standing.

"Fucking end her!" the voice shouts again. I take my chance and lunge, my fist connecting with her nose. The crack echoes, sending shivers down my spine. Her eyes roll back, and she falls to the floor, motionless.

I smile briefly, proud of my victory.

Thanks to years of training in our family gym, my dad doesn't hide me away. He trains me in Muay Thai, kickboxing, and weapons. These underground fights are where I use my skills.

"Valentina, come on," someone grabs my arm. It's my cousin Dante, looking worried. The crowd is panicking, trying to escape, and fights are breaking out.

"The cops are here," he says, pulling me out of the cage and grabbing my gear.

I panic. "What if Papa finds out?"

"Exactly," Dante says, dragging me through another warehouse to a gas station parking lot. "Clean yourself up," he says, throwing me a towel.

"Thanks," I say, draping it over my shoulder and removing my gloves. I head inside the gas station to the restrooms.

In the dirty mirror, I see my swollen eye and forming bruise. How am I going to hide this tonight?

After cleaning the blood off my skin, I put on my cropped hoodie and head into the store. I grab an ice cream from the freezer and press it against my eye, feeling immediate relief. I pay for the ice cream, and the cashier watches me warily as I leave.

“Valentina, hurry up,” Dante yells from across the parking lot.

I flip him off and walk slowly toward him, trying not to breathe too deeply because of the pain in my ribs.

“You have a visitor,” Dante says, his eyes narrowing as he looks toward the road, his shoulders tensing.

“Who?” I look in the same direction. “No way.” Walking toward us are my twin brother, Vito, and Giovanni, my would-be suitor. Annoyed, I shove my gloves in my bag and sling it over my shoulder, wincing.

“Valentina,” Dante stops me from storming off. “Play nice.” He winks and squeezes my arm reassuringly.

My dad has this old-fashioned idea that he can marry me off to another Italian Mob family. Over my dead body.

I march toward Vito, who looks amused. “Give me your keys,” I demand, holding out my hand. I ignore Giovanni completely, glaring at my brother.

Vito, only a minute older than me, has always bossed me around. We look alike with our dark hair and nearly black eyes, but he's five inches taller and likes to play the big brother, always backing me up and giving me grief.

“I don’t think so,” Vito says, swatting my hand away and turning back to Giovanni.

“Whatever.” I sneer and turn away.

I refuse to give Giovanni any attention, no matter his future as head of his family and his fortune. He's ten years older than me; why would he want someone who can't even drink legally?

I head back to my cousin. “Hey, can I borrow your bike, please?” I ask, wincing as the pain in my side worsens.

“No way,” he says, picking up the black helmet off the seat.

“Please, Dante,” I beg.

His eyes linger on a point behind me, and his gaze narrows as I hear footsteps approaching. “If you scratch it, you buy it. You owe me.” He drops the key in my hand.

“Thank you. I love you.” I tiptoe and kiss his cheek before swinging my leg over and straddling the black Ducati.

“Are you fucking crazy?” Vito looks at Dante in horror.

“Always,” Dante balances the helmet on my head and takes my bag from my shoulders.

“Valentina, Papa will fucking kill you, me, and Dante if anything else happens to you.” Vito grabs my arm, surveying my face for the damage already appearing.

“Well, if I die, I won’t have anything to worry about, will I?” I remove his fingers from my bicep and slide the key into the ignition. The bike purrs to life and the noise is like music to my ears, drowning out the world around me.

“Your funeral.” Vito shrugs.

My eyes drift to Giovanni. He stands silently, staring at me as I sit on the bike with my gym shorts riding up, showing off my muscular thighs. What a creep.

“Will I see you at the benefit tonight?” he asks, flashing a grin that probably makes most women swoon. But behind those charming brown eyes, there's a hint of darkness, promising revenge for my indifference. He's undeniably attractive, with deep brown eyes and almost black hair that looks effortlessly styled, though you know he spends hours on it.

I put on my helmet and ignore him, revving the bike loudly to drown out his voice. Without looking back, I speed out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

The hum of the bike on the open road and the feel of every curve and bump calms me. I love riding on the highway, weaving through traffic and feeling the rush of adrenaline. My dad bought me a custom purple Ducati 999S for my eighteenth birthday, and I named her Violet. She's my pride and joy.

Growing up with my cousins and brother, I did a lot of "boy" things. That's probably why I'm a tomboy at heart, enjoying working on my bike and fighting. I think my dad wished I were a boy to help take over the family business, but instead, he got me, his little girl who he thinks is too emotional for the job.

Our childhood mansion is just down the road from the house used in The Godfather. Our Tuscan-style villa is surrounded by lush lawns, manicured gardens, and a high brick fence for security. My dad, a respected New York Mob Boss, takes our safety seriously. We have an armed guard at the gate 24/7, an ex-military soldier who fought in Afghanistan.

“Papa, are you home?” I shout from the bottom of the grand staircase. In the kitchen, I find our nanny, Vana, making biscotti. It's a tradition for us to have dinner together whenever we're all home. Every Sunday lunch is a must, no matter what.

“Vana, have you seen Papa?” I ask, grabbing a San Pellegrino from the fridge.

“No, he called to say he won’t be back before the gala. He said to get ready and go without him,” she replies, placing the biscotti in the oven. She looks at me with concern; she's seen me battered and bruised many times and helped me hide it from my dad.

“Weird,” I say, noticing my two Dobermans, Storm and Midnight, scratching at the glass doors. “Storm, Midnight,” I call, opening the door.

They jump on me excitedly.

“I missed you both so much.”

I drop to my knees, letting them tackle me to the floor. They whine, lick my face, and cover the marble floors with muddy paw prints.

“Stop. Sit!” I command. They sit attentively, ears pricked forward, waiting for my next move.

My dad gave me Storm and Midnight for my birthday to keep me safe and help with the nightmares after I learned what real evil is. They're my loyal soul mates, never leaving my side until I moved away for school. They're trained to obey only me, which annoys the rest of my family.

“I love you,” I tell them, letting them know they can move. They lick my hands and run back outside to the pool.

“Valentina, go get ready for the gala; I’ll clean this mess,” Vana says, looking at me with a mix of love and annoyance. I always make extra work for her.

“Thanks. I love you,” I say, kissing her cheek before heading upstairs to my room.

I sync my phone to the speakers and let Tupac’s "How Do You Want It" play. I lose myself in the music, dancing around and using my bed as a stage. As the song ends, "Trouble" by Memorecks starts, giving me a wicked idea.

I look at the deep purple ball gown hanging on the door and flip it off. The last thing I want is to attend another charity gala, being paraded around like a showpiece.