All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without my permission.

Fiction

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Moral rights

Meg Merrilies (pen name) asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

External content

Meg Merrilies (pen name) has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

CHAPTER ONE - ARTEMISIA

I dismissed his pleas for a final meeting and sneered outright at the thought of attending his funeral. He hadn't earned the privilege. Nor had he earned my presence in his last hours.

His peculiar tradition of watching the sun through a shot glass while surrounded by his group of outcasts left a sour aftertaste no amount of alcohol could replace. 

Forever the hero in his twisted narrative, he conveniently forgot the collateral damage he brought to everyone he encountered. Pawns to be utilized at his whim is what we were and my last act of self-preservation was blatant absence. 

Papa would vanish on the radar of my existence, wiped as though he never existed.

My only sorrow was that he was unaware of what I planned for his precious legacy.

"If it would have made a difference, I'd have triumphantly whispered my intentions in his ear," I muttered to myself more than anyone else. 

Standing in the small room I secured for this day, I lifted my binoculars to examine the cathedral's stone fascia. Noted the heavy wooden doors and the funeral procession making its way up the avenue—not much longer now.

If I had gone, he would have tried to bend me to his will. He yearned for the reassurance that I would continue the family business in the same vein of cruelty.

"Better than ten sons," he once slurred after I dispatched my brothers to confront a rival cartel that dared to siphon our supply. I was simply trying to prevent an all-out turf war, and the poetic notion of gangsters eliminating one another had the specific ring of vengeance I craved.

I stopped being angry and started thinking of the cost on both sides. I settled into my role of a passenger princess. Always along for the ride, indulging in luxury, pretending to be Daddy Don's cherished little girl—my performance was Oscar-worthy at every turn.

Some of his so-called "friends" disapproved of my actions. The rest I assembled from their numbers, becoming the leader to those incapable of leading—the men and women who hated what they became. I blame the death of my mother for teaching me some men could be reformed.

There was always a better way, but it took me time to mature and realize how incentives and opportunities could motivate someone to turn away from a life of wrongdoing. Only then could I understand that even good men can make mistakes and yearn for redemption.

My father's criminal path granted access to their names, families, and the leverage he used against them through syndicate connections. I exploited that information to their advantage, keeping their secrets as they kept mine.

Papa was at the doors now. A mixture of emotions swirled within. How can one love someone so deeply yet wish them dead a thousand times over? 

My gaze fell on Ringer, who smiled sadly. I knew she insisted she join us for moral support. I didn't need it at twenty-four, but I loved her like family and kept her by my side. 

The crowd below seemed to swell further. My father was undeniably respected for his ruthless ways, evident in the crowd awaiting the family priest. Gathering high-ranking men in one place was dangerous, but they did it to honour Daddy Don. Even in death, he commanded respect. Witnessing such influential figures in this sordid business in one area was unsettling. 

The younger me would have considered collapsing the building on them when they entered. 

As the last person entered the church, another of Papa's men arrived. Undoubtedly hindered by the biting cold and congested streets of New York. The man was short and wiry. His face etched from acne as a teen. Nothing to look at, not unlike most gems before you mine them. 

I met him once and instantly knew the man was a lion. I also knew he was the only man my father truly distrusted, making him an immediate object of interest to me and several senior members of our organization.

I observed as he shifted from one foot to the other, restless at the chapel doors as if half-expecting someone to make a move. He should have known better than to come.

The corners of my mouth twitched upward as I watched the scuffle below. He fought well but succumbed when my men pounced while another covered his head with a bag and shoved him into a van.

Predictable, in an unpredictable way.

It was day one of being our family's new Dona, and I was just getting started.