Too Late For Regret: The Exiled Mafia Princess

Gianna POV

Flashlight beams cut through the dim kitchen, blinding me.

I ducked low, letting the billowing steam from the dish pit veil my face. Before Lily had brought me inside, I had rubbed gritty engine grease from the alley dumpster onto my cheeks and hacked my long dark hair into a jagged mess with dull kitchen shears. To anyone looking, I was a pathetic street vagrant.

Rosa slammed a cast-iron pot onto the stove. "What the hell is wrong with you people? You're tracking mud all over my freshly mopped floors!"

The lead enforcer ignored her. He marched toward the dish pit and grabbed my shoulder, yanking me backward.

"Look up."

I turned slowly, letting my shoulders slump.

He shined his flashlight into my eyes. "What's your name?"

"Gia Smith." I made my voice raspy and flat, stripped of every privileged inflection.

"Gia?" He narrowed his eyes.

Rosa stepped between us, crossing her thick arms. "I found her sleeping in a dumpster two weeks ago. She didn't even know her own name. I gave her one. Now back off before I charge your boss for property damage."

The enforcer pressed the cold steel of his shotgun under my chin, forcing my head up. "Can you read, Gia Smith?"

I shook my head slowly, eyes wide and vacant.

He shoved a glossy photograph inches from my nose—me, at the syndicate gala, diamond necklace, crimson gown, the golden crest behind me.

"Have you seen this woman?"

I squinted, pretending to struggle. Slowly, I pointed a trembling, soapy finger at the crest.

"Is that a pizza logo?"

The enforcer rolled his eyes in disgust and lowered the photograph.

He was about to turn away when his flashlight swept across my hands, still gripping the sink edge.

"Show me your palms."

My heart hammered. Cold sweat broke out on my neck. To hesitate was to die. I turned my hands over.

The harsh light illuminated thick, distinct calluses at the base of my index fingers and along the webbing of my thumbs—the marks of years firing heavy handguns and gripping tactical knives. A dishwasher didn't have hands like a trained hitman.

The enforcer's expression shifted to predatory realization. He raised his weapon, aiming at my chest.

"Wait."

A tall man in a tailored gray trench coat stepped out of the shadows by the back door. His voice was quiet but carried weight that made the enforcers tense.

They spun, weapons rising. The man calmly reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy silver token engraved with a snarling black wolf—a high-level operative marker granting absolute impunity, operating entirely outside the Commission's radar.

The enforcers lowered their weapons immediately, blood draining from their faces.

"Sir, we were just following the Don's orders—"

"Are you shaking down civilians without a Capo's direct order now?"

"No, sir."

"Then get out."

They scrambled out like frightened dogs. The door slammed shut. Silence fell, broken only by the soft bubbling of the pot on the stove.

Rosa let out a shaky breath. "Thanks for the assist, mister."

The man didn't look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on me.

"I didn't do it for you." He walked slowly toward the dish pit. "I'm collecting an old family debt."

He stopped a few feet away.

"My name is Pietro. I knew Enzo. Your father was a man who didn't deserve to die."

I gripped the sink edge so hard my knuckles turned white.

Pietro reached into his trench coat again and tossed something onto the steel counter. It landed with a heavy metallic clink—a fragmented piece of solid gold, tarnished but unmistakable. Half of a Capo signet ring.

I picked it up with trembling fingers. There was a deep scratch on the inner band. I had made that scratch with a pair of scissors when I was seven, trying to pry the ring off my father's desk.

"This is his," I whispered, a tear cutting through the grease on my cheek.

Pietro leaned against the counter. "The Harbor Massacre three years ago wasn't a rival ambush. Someone inside the Family deliberately left the gates open."

My chest tightened. "Who?"

He pocketed his hands. "If you want the whole truth, you need to stay alive long enough to hear it." He turned toward the back door. "The syndicate will keep hunting you, Gia. They won't stop until they confirm you're rotting in the ground."

He opened the heavy door, letting freezing wind howl into the kitchen.

"And when you finally find out who gave the order," he added, looking over his shoulder, "make sure you're ready to survive the answer."