Mafia Princess Read online

  My mom answered on the second ring. “Lorik, is that you?”

  “Yes, nënë, it’s me.”

  And then the three minute scolding fest started. I sat there listening to her go on and on about how she worries, and how it was my duty as her firstborn to check in at least every second day, and that I’d be the cause of her having a heart attack one day.

  “Mom, relax. If you don’t calm down, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack.”

  I could hear her take a breath, and then exhale—just like my sister had taught her. My sister and I both knew how stressed out she could get, especially when it came to the two of us.

  “I know I shouldn’t worry, Lorik. But you can at least answer when I call, or have the decency to text me back.”

  I closed my eyes, mentally cursing the day my sister decided it would be a good idea to give mom a cellphone for Christmas. Worst fucking idea ever.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. It’s just real busy at work.” Before giving her the opportunity to once again tell me what a bad decision it was for me to become a cop, I continued quickly, “How’s Dad doing?”

  “Other than worrying about you and your sister the whole time, he’s doing fine.”

  “Is Dad’s sugar still under control?”

  “Yes, thank the Lord. But I constantly have to go through his drawers and check for hidden chocolate bars.”

  I snickered, thinking that that sounded exactly like Dad. He’s always had a sweet tooth, but unfortunately, his diabetes didn’t allow him to indulge.

  “You should come for lunch on Sunday, Lorik. Your father misses you.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I love you, my sweet boy,” she said softly, her Albanian accent present with every word. My father was a born and raised American, who fell in love with an Albanian woman while he traveled the world as a pilot. Sounded like a love story out of a damn movie—and it probably was. I never stuck around long enough whenever the topic of their epic love story came up during conversation. That was the kind of story no kid should hear their parents tell—ever.

  So my sister and I, we don’t have the same accent as our mother, but when it came to looks, we took after her with our inky black hair, dark brown eyes, and year-round tanned skin.

  “I love you too, Mom. I have to go. I’ll let you know about Sunday.”

  I hung up before she got a chance to remind me about not waiting too long before I call her again.

  Glancing at my wrist watch, I smiled. It’s been fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of stewing for the woman still waiting for me. My detective ass was willing to bet that she was probably sweating like a damn farm animal by now.

  I took my time as I sauntered in the direction of the interrogation room. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

  Monroe passed me as I walked down the hall, and I could see the wheels turning in his head, probably wondering what the hell I was up to. Too bad. This was my case—well technically not my case—but I fucking made it my case.

  I stopped in front of the one-way mirror, and there she was—Karina Valenti, daughter of infamous Italian-American Mafia boss, Lorenzo Valenti—waiting just for me.

  Now I must admit, I was slightly disappointed at how absolutely cool and calm she looked. She hadn’t even broken a sweat during the fifteen minutes she was cramped up inside that stinking room without a clue as to what she was doing there.

  Slanting my head to the side, I continued to look at her. This was the first time I’ve seen her in person. All the other two thousand, one hundred and thirteen times I’ve seen that face was when I stared at a picture of her—in a non-weird, perverted kind of way.

  I’ve been keeping a very close eye on the Valentis, studying them—her parents, her two brothers, her. For the last sixteen months I’ve basically been glued to every move that family made. And by now I sure as hell knew a lot about Karina Valenti.

  For instance, I know that she’s twenty-two years old, her birthday is January eleventh, and that she is in her third year at Columbia University Law School. Currently she was home for summer vacation, one of the three times a year she visited—the others being Thanksgiving and Christmas. I also knew that her family owned the Italian restaurant I just had my lunch at, the restaurant I’ve been having my lunch at quite regularly lately.

  The Valentis pretended that the restaurant was a goldmine—judging by their pizza it probably was—and that Lorenzo’s impeccable knowledge in everything Wall Street was where they got all their wealth from. But everyone knew that Lorenzo Valenti was so much more than that.

  Children have been disappearing like crayons at a daycare center, bodies pooling up, and drugs spreading like a fucking disease on the streets. I’m convinced that this woman’s dad was behind it all.

  She flipped her long, dark hair over her shoulder holding her phone in the other hand. She was texting, or probably updating her Facebook status for the hundredth time today. This woman was more active on social media than a cheap hooker in Kensington, Pennsylvania.

  I decided to finally grace her with my presence, and walked into the room.

  “Miss Valenti, thank you for coming. I’m Detective Stone.”

  “Detective Stone.” She looked up at me, and the moment her eyes met mine, I’m instantly captivated. I’ve seen them so many times before in pictures, but it’s obvious that the camera didn’t do them justice. Her big, round eyes were like melted chocolate swirls—dark, rich, and alluring, making me wish I could jump in and get lost inside them.

  “Do you mind telling me what all this is about, Detective?”

  My gaze fell down to her full, luscious, tempting red lips, and all I see at that moment, all I think about right then are eyes and lips, and about a dozen acts of sin.

  Karina Valenti was beautiful.

  Fuck.

  Chapter 2

  KARINA

  Staring at the detective in front of me, I knew I didn’t trust him. I also knew that the whole story of a receipt with my credit card number being found on an armed robber last night was bullshit. My credit card wasn’t stolen. Plus, I checked my bank account and there were no funds missing.

  What I did know was that this probably had everything to do with my last name being Valenti. I might not be anything more than a rich princess, daughter of a powerful and wealthy family to most of the people here in Boston, but I’m not stupid.

  And the way this detective was staring at me with his dark brown eyes all smoldering and confident—maybe a little too confident—I’m about ninety-nine percent sure that he was hoping to get some information out of me.

  He placed his arms on the table. “Miss Valenti, we found a credit card receipt—”

  “No you didn’t.” I don’t have time for bullshit.

  He narrowed his dark eyes and a smirk started at the corners of his mouth, dimples appearing just above it. If I wasn’t so annoyed with the fact that he lied to get me here, I would have taken at least ten minutes to admire him.

  With a sturdy, square jawline that could possibly—easily—chisel granite, a five o’clock shadow, and a pair of full, appealing lips, Detective Stone was really easy on the eyes. And judging by the way he filled out the shirt and jeans he was wearing, I’m willing to bet he has the physique and muscle to back up all that confidence oozing out of him.

  I haven’t even been in the same room as this man for two minutes and I already knew his ego was bigger than fucking China.

  “Miss Valenti-”

  “That’s it, isn’t it? It’s my last name that has me here at two o’clock on a Friday afternoon, instead of drinking cocktails by the pool with my friends.” I might as well act like the rich princess everyone thinks I am.

  That smirk was still plastered on his face as he leisurely leaned back in his chair. “I see you’re a no bullshit kind of woman.”

  “I’m Italian, what do you expect?” I crossed my legs under the table, and notice him glance down at my lap while biting his lower lip as he slowly
moved his gaze up my body.

  “Tell me about yourself, Miss—”

  “Something tells me you already know everything there is to know.” I cocked my head to the side, letting my dark curls slip over my shoulder.

  His eyebrows slant inward, and then he reaches into his pants pocket before pulling out his cellphone.

  I watched as he slid his finger across the screen.

  “According to Facebook—”

  “You have Facebook?”

  He glanced up at me. “Stop interrupting me.”

  “Stop antagonizing me.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

  He snorts and turns his attention back to his phone. “So according to Facebook,”—he glanced at me for a split second like he’s expecting me to interrupt again, but I don’t—“Karina Valenti checked-in at the Skin Spa in New York,”—he turned the screen toward me—“and she checked in five minutes ago to get some ‘well-deserved pampering with my girlfriends,’” he mocked, reading my status update.

  Well shit. I did not see that one coming.

  That would teach me not to use the fifteen minutes stuck in an interrogation room to update my fake Facebook page. I had a PR company doing it for me up until a few months ago. But they kept on fucking up by posting the biggest load of crap that clashed with some of my public appearances. Like, ‘Karina Valenti is out fishing with her friends today,’ when in fact, I was at the new local library opening ceremony getting my picture taken with my dad and the fucking Mayor—shit like that. And since when does Karina Valenti go fucking fishing?

  So I decided to do this whole fake-public-profile-picture-on-social-media thing myself in order to protect the little privacy that I do have. The issue of privacy was one of the reasons I didn’t come home very often. My parents usually have to beg me relentlessly for two months straight before I eventually agree to come home for a visit.

  I don’t like the way I feel when I’m here in town, the way everyone around me makes me feel. Like I said, I’m not stupid. I’m not oblivious to what my father does, and neither is the rest of Boston—the world for that matter. Wherever I went, I was labeled as the daughter of Lorenzo Valenti, the infamous Mafia boss everyone knew he was, but were unable to prove.

  I’ve long made peace with the fact that whispers will always follow me wherever I go, no matter where in the world I am. But here in Boston, my hometown, it wasn’t just whispers—it was screams. No one here even tried to be inconspicuous about the fact that they talked about me, about my family. And I hated it.

  I hate every second I spent here. I hate the giant label that hung around my neck like a fucking scarlet letter, which was why I’ve spent the last two years trying to distance myself from my family—from my dad. It’s hard, but not being around them was the only way for me to be able to breathe normally.

  Anyway, seems like I just fucked up on this whole doing my own PR thing as well.

  I pull my hand through my hair, tangling my fingers through the curls. It was something I did when I was nervous, but only those closest to me knew that.

  “Are you nervous, Miss Valenti?”

  What the fuck?

  I shifted slightly in my seat. “Detective Stone, you seem to think that you know me. But let me assure you, you don’t.”

  He shakes his head, an inky black curl moving down his forehead. “I might not know you, Miss Valenti, but apparently all one hundred and eighty two thousand, three hundred and twenty-two followers don’t know you either.” A cocky grin crossed his face, drawing my attention to those damn dimples again.

  I uncross, and then cross my legs again. “It’s a necessary precaution.”

  He held his arms up in the air and shrugged. “And I totally get that. Being the daughter of the wealthy, powerful, notorious Wall Street guru, Lorenzo Valenti, has its downsides I suppose.”

  I glowered at him from underneath my lashes. “Tell me what you want, Detective Stone.”

  He tucked his phone back into his pants pocket. “I want you to tell me what the fuck is happening in this city.”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean.”

  “During the last two years it’s like everything got shot to shit in this place, and I’m willing to bet my life savings that your father is behind it all.”

  “It’s not much, is it?”

  “What isn’t much?”

  “Your life savings.” I almost high fived myself.

  He continued to stare at me, his expression unreadable. “So you’re not just a no bullshit woman, but you’re funny, too.”

  I smiled.

  He leaned back and lifted a leg, placing his ankle over his one knee, and God help me, but when I noticed how perfectly the jeans he was wearing hugged his thick, hard thighs I couldn’t stop my gaze from moving upward to see what else those denims were hugging. Just the thought alone caused the slightest ache to pulse between my legs. Jesus.

  “See something you like, Miss Valenti?” His voice interrupted my sleazy thoughts that had no place inside my mind in the first place. I jerked my head up and cleared my throat.

  “Not particularly, no.” For some reason I couldn’t look at him right at that moment since I practically had thoughts of his cock infest my mind just seconds ago. Judging by the heat that suddenly spread across my skin I knew I was flushed from chest to forehead. Hopefully he didn’t notice.

  “You look flushed.” Goddammit.

  “It’s from the lack of oxygen in this damn room.” I meet his gaze.

  He narrowed his dark eyes, the one side of his lip slightly curved up. “Yeah, I’m sure it’s that.”

  “Do me a favor, would you? Cut the bullshit and get to the point so that I can get out of here.”

  “Okay then. Tell me about your dad—or The Wolf, as he’s known as on the streets. Tell me what kind of operation he’s really running.”

  Oh my God. If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me that exact same question. The Wolf was always on everyone’s minds and lips whenever they were around me. It’s like I didn’t even exist apart from being Lorenzo Valenti, The Wolf’s daughter. Everyone was always so damn predictable when it came to me and my relationship with my dad.

  “Detective, I really don’t know what you want me to say here.”

  “Oh come now, Miss Valenti. We both know your father doesn’t make his millions just by running a family owned business and playing around on the stock market.”

  “What exactly are you implying, Detective?”

  He shifted in his seat and placed his hands on the table. “You can cut the crap, Miss Valenti. Lorenzo Valenti is what we call an Italian-American Mafia boss, and even though I can’t prove it now, I will.”

  A cold tremor wracked through my body, and I wipe a curl out of my face trying to mask the mini panic attack I’m having. “I don’t know where you get your information, but you should really consider removing those informants from your payroll, Detective.”

  He snorted. “I thought you were a no bullshit kind of woman?”

  “I’m not. I mean I am.” Shit. I’m nervous. This damn man was making me nervous, and growing up with two Italian, headstrong brothers who made me the tough woman I am today, that was saying a lot.

  “So which is it?”

  I cleared my throat, determined not to let my discomfort show. “Detective Stone, am I under arrest?”

  “Not at all.”

  Immediately I grabbed my purse and got up from the chair. “In that case, it was nice to meet you, Detective Stone. But please, in the future, do not waste my time like this again.”

  I leaned over the table getting as close to him as possible. “I have a life I need to live in order to share it with my one hundred and eighty two thousand, three hundred and twenty-two followers. I really don’t want to disappoint them.”

  “I wouldn’t want to interfere with that now, would I?” His eyes dart down to my chest, and then I realize that I basically just shoved my cleavage in his face.


  “See something you like, Detective?”

  “Absolutely.” He glanced up from my cleavage to my face. “And unlike you I’m not afraid to admit it.”

  I bend a little lower, purposefully allowing my blouse to gape even more, making sure he got a damn eyeful of something he would never fucking have. “Believe me, I’m not afraid to admit when I see something I like…or want.”

  “So that makes you a liar then.”

  “And what exactly gives you that idea?”

  “The fact that you have your back arched just so you can shove your tits in my face.” His eyes flit down to my breasts before he leaned to the side in his seat and glanced back at my ass. “Then there’s also the fact that your ass is currently pushed up like it’s searching for something,”—he looks back at me—“or maybe it needs something.”

  Oh. My. God.

  The way those words rolled out of his mouth like goddamn verbal porn had heat spreading all the way from my cheeks, down my spine straight to the ache between my legs.

  Without backing away I keep my gaze fixed on his. “You’re quite observant, aren’t you, Detective?”

  He nodded. “That’s why I’m so damn good at everything I do.”

  The way he emphasized the word ‘everything’ I knew he wasn’t talking about his job.

  I narrowed my eyes as I slowly started to realize that playing the flirting game with Detective Stone wasn’t something I would win easily. He had that damn sex-appeal thing down to a fucking T, and judging by the desire currently pooling between my legs I was convinced that if we continued with this little game, it would end with me bent over this goddamn steel table, cuffed and gasping for air while he proved to me what a liar I am over…and over…and over again.

  “Are we finished here, Detective?”

  “Not by a long shot.” The promise in his words came out loud and clear, and it sent a thrill of excitement down my spine.