I Took His Crime, He Took My Family Fortune

"The Rossi family doesn't need a Don. We just need a Donna."

As the only heiress of the Rossi family, this was the law that I had set when I received the Browning pistol—a pistol that resembles the ultimate authority in the Rossi family—from my Papa when he was on his deathbed.

But three years ago, the police relentlessly investigated the money laundering business that my fiance, Lorenzo Moretti, was in charge of.

If that business were to get exposed, the Rossi family's hundred-year-old legacy would be ruined.

In order to protect my family's legacy and to allow Lorenzo to continue legalizing my family's businesses, I decided to become the scapegoat for all the crimes.

On the rainy night of my arrest, I personally handed the pistol over to Lorenzo.

"Protect my family for me before my return."

This gave Lorenzo legitimate authority to run my family.

He used the pistol to purge my subordinates and take over the family business. He even broke my law by announcing to the public that he'd become the next Don soon.

An invitation with golden borders is soon leaked from the family's inner circle. Lorenzo's and another woman's names are printed on the cover.

During a visit, my private lawyer says mockingly, "If you don't get out of prison now, the Rossi family might take on another man's last name for real."

I just sneer in response. After that, I get bailed out of jail in advance and return home to celebrate Lorenzo's "funeral".

But no matter how many times I scan my iris at the biometric scanner in the estate, the result always comes out wrong.

A young woman, who's toying with the pistol, opens the door at that moment. The contempt and disdain in her eyes are plain to see.

"Where the hell did a crazy woman like you come from? You came to the wrong place. This is my private turf, you know."

I stood before the Cicelyan-style wrought-iron gates, the cold wind cutting straight through my thin gray prison uniform.

The Browning M1911 had been mine since I was 18 years old. On the day of my coming-of-age, my Papa engraved the family crest into the grip with his own hands and placed it in mine.

Now, it was spinning between the fingers of a woman who looked barely 20. The muzzle drifted carelessly past my brow, like she was eager for some fun.

I could even smell Rosa da Sparo—Gunpowder Rose—on her. It was my perfume, the only bottle in the world, custom-made to celebrate my ascension as the Donna.

"Crazy woman?"

I digested the word, my gaze sliding down to the legs wrapped in expensive stockings. "If I remember right, everything within 1,640 feet of this estate is a controlled zone. Even a fly needs my permission to get in."

Her name was Sofia Ricchi. I had seen it on the family roster before I went to prison. Back then, she was nothing more than a casino