From Mafia Doll To Montana Queen

Olivia POV

The scent of turpentine usually calmed me, grounding me in the quiet work of creation. Today, however, it smelled like a funeral.

I stood in the center of my studio, surrounded by four years of obsession. Sketches of Marcus’s hands. Oil paintings of his silhouette against the New York skyline. Charcoal drawings of his eyes.

With a trembling breath, I began to stack them.

It was heavy work, moving the canvases. My arms burned, but the pain in my chest was sharper, a physical ache that made it hard to breathe.

I picked up a small, unfinished piece. It was Marcus sitting on the terrace, a rare moment of vulnerability I had captured from memory. He looked tired in the painting. Human.

I ran my thumb over the dried paint of his cheekbone.

"You aren't real," I whispered, my voice cracking. "You're just a ghost I dressed up in a suit."

I tossed it onto the pile.

Under a stack of sketchbooks, I found a photograph. It was old, frayed at the edges. A candid shot from a Fourth of July party years ago. The crowd was pushing, and Marcus had stepped back, his arm acting as a barrier to keep me from being crushed.

He wasn't looking at me in the photo. His focus wasn't on me at all; it was locked on the threat. But his body was shielding mine.

Tears pricked my eyes, hot and sudden. I had clung to that moment for so long. I had named it love. Now, looking at his indifferent profile, it just looked like duty. Like guarding a piece of expensive luggage.

I gathered everything in a laundry basket and carried it down to the main hall's massive fireplace. It was late; the house was silent as a tomb.

I threw the photo in first. Then the sketches.

I struck a match.

The flame caught the edge of the paper. It curled, turning black, then bright orange.

I watched Marcus’s face distort in the heat before vanishing into ash.

Just as the fire roared to life, headlights swept across the front windows, cutting through the gloom.

I froze.

I moved to the window, peering through the heavy velvet drapes.

Marcus’s black SUV was in the driveway. He got out, but he wasn't alone.

Izzy slid out of the passenger seat. She was laughing, her head thrown back in a display of carefree intimacy. She looped her arm through his, leaning her weight against him.

They walked toward the front door like a king and queen returning to their castle.

I felt sick. Physically, violently ill.

I turned back to the fire, throwing the rest of the canvases in with a violence that scared me.

Burn, I thought, the heat scorching my face. Burn it all.

*

Three days later, Izzy found me.

I was in the garden, reading a book I wasn't absorbing, the words blurring together on the page.

"Olivia," she purred. Her voice was like silk wrapped around a razor blade. "I didn't know you were an artist."

I looked up. She was smiling, but her eyes were cold, calculating.

"I dabble," I said, closing my book.

"I saw some... remnants in the fireplace," she said, tilting her head mockingly. "Charcoal. Canvas. And a scrap that looked remarkably like Marcus’s profile."

My blood ran cold.

"You have a talent," she continued, stepping closer until she invaded my personal space. "But obsession can be dangerous in our world, sweetie. It causes... misunderstandings."

She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. It felt less like a gesture of affection and more like she was marking her territory.

"We have a family dinner tonight," she said. "I need help with the decorations. Since you have such an *artistic* eye."

She wasn't asking.

That night, the dining room was tense. The alliance negotiations were stalling, the air thick with unspoken threats.

I watched Marcus. He looked off. His movements were slightly delayed, like he was moving underwater. His eyes were glassy.

Someone had slipped him something. A mild sedative? Too much alcohol?

He stumbled slightly as he stood to make a toast.

Instinct overrode my brain. I stood up, reaching out to steady him.

"Marcus," I started.

Izzy was faster. She was there in a second, her hand on his chest, guiding him back down.

"Oh no," she said loudly, her voice dripping with fake concern. "Olivia, please. He's just tired. Don't crowd him."

She looked at the table, at the Don, at my father.

"She's been so... intense lately," Izzy whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Always hovering. It's making him uncomfortable."

My father’s face went red. The Don frowned.

Marcus looked at me. His eyes were hazy, confused. He didn't defend me. He let her speak for him.

"I was just—" I tried to defend myself.

"Enough," my father snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. "Olivia, go to your room."

"But Dad—"

"Now!"

Izzy smirked. It was brief, a flash of teeth, but I saw it.

She had baited me. She knew I would try to help. She turned my concern into harassment.

I was grounded. Confined to my quarters like a child.

"Behavior unbecoming of a Hayes," my father had lectured me later. "Trying to seduce the Underboss at a family dinner? Have you lost your mind?"

"I didn't!" I screamed, but he slammed the door in my face.

I sat on my bed, staring at the New York skyline. The city lights blurred through my tears.

I wasn't a princess. I was a pawn. And now, I was a prisoner.

But as the tears dried, something else took their place. A cold, hard resolve.

Izzy thought she had won. She thought by locking me away, she had neutralized me.

She was wrong.

She had just given me the time I needed.

I pulled out my laptop. I wasn't just an artist. I was David Hayes’s daughter. I knew where the skeletons were buried—and more importantly, I knew where he kept his ledgers.

They think they locked me in, I wrote in my diary, the pen digging deep into the paper. But they just handed me the tools to forge a key.

Days turned into a week. My father visited once, telling me it was for my own good. I smiled a plastic smile and nodded.

Then came the letter.

It was slid under my door. No stamp. No return address.

Inside was a photo.

It was me. Taken from the window of the garden house. I was painting Marcus.

On the back, in jagged letters: Stay away from him, or the next picture will be of your grave.

I dropped the photo. My hands shook.

They were watching me. Inside my own home.

This wasn't just jealousy. This was a hunt.

I looked around my room. It didn't look like a sanctuary anymore. It looked like a cage.

I tore the photo into pieces.

I didn't feel fear anymore. I felt hate.

It was a new sensation, heavy and dark in my stomach.

I walked to the wall safe hidden behind my vanity. I began to spin the dial.

I wasn't going to wait to be killed.