The Revenge of Don’s Secret Heiress

My father was one of the first dons to rise out of the Naples mob. My mother was an iron-fisted businesswoman with a reputation that made grown men flinch.

When I was ten, somebody had the nerve to hijack one of my father's freight ships. He had the man's arms and legs broken with a crowbar, then stuffed a handful of gold rings down his throat — told him to count his money while he crawled.

When I was fifteen, some scheming woman tried to get her claws into my father. My mother hired the filthiest pimps off the docks, shipped her down to a back-alley bar in Marseille, and told her to make her own way.

And me — I grew up running the streets of Naples like I owned them. The sons of every other family knew to call me Miss Ferrante and keep their hands to themselves.

Then I met him. A rough, quiet man fresh out of the army. For him I put down the knives, traded the silk for plain cotton, and followed him back to that little nothing of a coastal town, Porto Scuro.

Today my mother-in-law and my husband went down to the dock warehouses to settle a dispute. They held her face down in a barrel of rotting fish guts. They kicked in three of his ribs.

I stared at the salt fish I'd been slicing on the kitchen board, let out a cold laugh, and brought the knife down so hard the oak split in half.

Then I dialed my father's private line.

The phone rang in the empty office. There was something almost funny about it — the Don of Naples, working as my switchboard.

The line connected.

"Yeah." My father Enzo Ferrante's low voice came through, glasses clinking faintly in the background — somewhere a private club was running a big deal.

"Dad. It's me. Sofia."

The line went dead silent. Then a crash — a table flipped, glass shattering on the floor.

"Baby. Finally. That hick soldier laid hands on you, didn't he? I'll have him gutted before sundown."

"Bring everyone. Porto Scuro, on the bay. Bring your best surgeon. Bring whatever else you need to bring." I stared at the stiletto in my hand. My knuckles had gone white. My voice was flat.

"Someone broke your son-in-law's ribs. They held my mother-in-law down in a barrel of rotting fish."

A sharp intake of breath on the other end. Then a roar of pure rage.

"They've lost their fucking minds. Touching anyone who belongs to Enzo Ferrante. You hold tight. I'll have that miserable little town flattened before sunrise."

Click.

I hung up and kicked the mayor's door off its hinges. Heavy oak, gone in one shot, kicking up a cloud of dust on the way down.

Outside, the sun was blinding. Hot wind off the sea, thick with salt and the smell of fish.

I tucked the stiletto back into my sleeve and walked east, fast, toward