Emilia's POV
Linda tossed me a duffel bag. "Change. And ditch the phone—GPS is probably pinging your psycho dad already."
I fumbled with a sequined crop top and jeans, my fingers shaking so badly I could barely work the zipper. "Where'd you get these?"
Linda was two sizes bigger than me and taller. These weren't hers.
"Stole 'em from my roommate's closet."
"Lyn!" I almost laughed—genuine surprise cutting through the panic. Stealing from Wanda, her metalhead nightmare of a roommate, was a special kind of crazy.
"What?" She shrugged. "Figured she owes me for being a shitty human being." A pause. "Have you spoken to your sister? About your father's madness?"
The laughter died.
I didn't like talking about Liliana on a good day. This was not a good day.
My throat tightened. "No." I pulled the crop top over my head. The sequins scratched—cheap, perfect, nothing like the silk and pearls Vittorio required. "Liliana can't help me. She's too busy fucking and breeding for the Kamikaze scum."
"That's harsh, Emilia."
I know. The words stuck in my throat. I knew Liliana at sixteen—before the marriage, before three kids in four years, before she learned to smile with dead eyes. I knew who she used to be.
I took a breath. Closed my eyes. "I know." The whisper scraped past whatever was lodged in my chest. "But I refuse to end up like her, Lyn. I won't."
Linda studied me for a long moment, then looked back at the road. "What the hell are we going to do, baby? We can't keep driving forever."
"I know. I'm way ahead of you."
She slammed the brakes. The car jolted to a stop. "You have a plan." Her face split into a grin. "Yes! You have a plan." Then the grin flickered. "What is the plan?"
I leaned closer. "Stay with me, okay? I'm going to find a complete stranger. A nobody."
"And—"
"I'ma fuck them."
Linda stared at me for ten full seconds. The engine ticked. Somewhere behind us, a car honked.
"That's not a plan," she said slowly. "That's a great way to catch an STD, babe."
I leaned in further. "What's the one thing mafia pricks have in common when it comes to wives?"
"They want—"
"They want virgins for brides." The words tasted like ash. "It's the one thing Vittorio's been consistent about. Why we endure monthly humiliating gynecologist visits. Why Liliana was examined before they shipped her off to the Kamikaze like a thoroughbred."
"Emilia..."
"It's my only option, Lyn. Because like you said—we can't drive forever."
I saw the moment she wavered. The fight left her shoulders, replaced by something heavier. Resignation. Or maybe fear—not of what we were doing, but of what waited if we didn't.
I leaned back and closed my eyes. The leather seat stuck to my bare arms.
"We have to find me a guy, Lyn." My voice sounded very small. "To lose my virginity to."
The silence stretched. Then the engine started.
"I might know a place." She pulled back onto the road. "Just—the hottest club in town. You'll see."
---
La Luna
La Luna wasn't a club. It was a crypt dressed up as a party.
Sweat-drenched basement. Throbbing lights that stabbed my eyes. The reek of cheap tequila and someone's vomit near the door. My ears rang before we were even inside.
Linda dragged me past a bouncer with knuckle tattoos spelling OMERTÀ.
Omertà. The code of silence. I met his eyes and quickly looked away. He could recognize me.
"This is a good place to catch an STD," I muttered to myself.
Linda shoved a neon-pink cocktail into my hand. "Tokyo Iced Tea. Drink. It'll steady your nerves."
I gagged on the syrupy sweetness. "What if someone recognizes me?"
It wasn't paranoia. It was called being Vittorio Conti's daughter—everyone's favorite leverage, everyone's favorite prey.
After the mob war in 2003, Little Italy got divided five ways. Five families. Five territories. The Marchettis took everything—power, money, respect. The Kamikaze—my brother-in-law's crew—controlled the docks and half the vice in the city. The Morellis had construction. The Bianchis ran the unions.
And my father? Vittorio Conti held the politicians. The judges in his pocket. The cops on his payroll. He had a little bit of this and a little bit of that, thanks to having daughters he could sell.
And he didn't get that seat by being nice. And he sure as hell didn't survive a war with the Marchettis by being forgettable.
"You think anyone here cares about Contis?" Linda spun me toward the dance floor. Bodies writhed under a flickering sign. "They don't. In here, you're just like the rest of us humans."
"You think?"
"I know." She scanned the crowd. "Now. That guy's been eyeing you like dessert. Don't look yet."
I looked. Obviously.
Him.
Tall. Leather jacket hanging off shoulders that looked like they'd carried things—heavy things, dangerous things. A smirk that cut through the haze like a blade. His eyes glinted—green flecked with gold, catching the dancing lights.
Something about him tugged at my memory. Familiar. Wrong. I couldn't place it.
He was also breathtaking. The kind of breathtaking that made my chest hurt.
"He's out of my league," I whispered, my nerve crumbling.
Linda grabbed my arm. "He's a guy with a cock. You're a girl with a father to piss off. Every guy digs Daddy issues."
"They do?"
"Do it. Before your daddy's goons raid the place. And—please, use a fake name."
I stumbled toward the bar, the Tokyo Iced Tea burning my veins. The stranger's gaze tracked me—deliberate, patient. A hunter who'd already spotted his prey.
I made it halfway before my legs locked. I started to turn—
"You look lost."
His voice slid over me like the cognac he swirled in his glass. Smooth. Expensive. Dangerous. The kind of voice that could talk you into anything and make you thank him after.
"I'm not." I leaned closer. It was too late to turn back. The clock was ticking.
Somewhere, Vittorio's men were fanning out across the city, looking for me
"I'm celebrating."
"Yeah?" His thumb grazed my wrist. Calloused. Warm. A shock that traveled straight up my arm. "What's the occasion?"
"I turned twenty-one today." I lifted my chin—defiant, the way I'd learned at my father's table.
"Yeah?" A smile tugged at his mouth. Not the smirk from before. Something almost genuine. "Happy birthday, darlin'."
I took another step. Up close, he was even more beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made you forget why you were there in the first place.
"Thanks." The word came out breathy. Then, because my brain had apparently left the building, I blurted out: "You wanna fuck?"
His glass stopped halfway to his mouth.
For one endless second, he just looked at me. The gold flecks in his eyes caught the light. Something shifted in his expression—surprise, yes, but beneath it, something sharper. Calculation. Interest.
Then very slowly, very deliberately, he set his glass down.
"That's one way to start a conversation, darlin'."