Chapter 1

A neon Ferrari rams my car in a drive-thru line.

The driver kicks my door and demands fifty grand for a scratch.

When my blind mother-in-law tries to speak, the woman sneers and tells the "old hag" to shut up and die.

“Pay,” she sneers. “My man is Dante Moretti, the next Don of Chicago. Cross me, and you both vanish before sunset.”

I was so mad I let out a laugh.

She has no idea Dante is my husband.

And she has no idea the frail old woman she just humiliated is the undisputed Godmother of the Syndicate.

.....

"Get out of that piece of junk right now, you filthy beggar."

A loud kick slammed into my driver door, rattling the window glass.

I had been waiting in line at an ordinary diner drive-thru on 26th Street. My foot was firmly on the brake of my ten-year-old Honda Civic.

Thirty seconds ago, a hot-pink Ferrari tried to cut the queue.

The driver misjudged the turn and slammed violently into my rear bumper.

It was an everyday fender-bender during morning rush hour.

Except the driver didn't check for damage. She kicked my door.

Through the glass, a woman glared at me with open disgust.

Beside her stood a burly man in a dark suit, his hand resting conspicuously on his hip.

"Are you deaf, bitch?" the woman screamed, pounding on my roof.

"Look at what your trash can did to my front bumper. Get out here."

Around us, several drivers waiting in their sedans and pickup trucks looked over.

"Hey, lady," a delivery driver called from behind. "You cut the line and rear-ended her. It was your fault."

The burly man snapped his head around.

He pulled back his suit jacket, deliberately showing off the grip of a silver handgun tucked in his waistband.

"Shut your mouth if you want to see tomorrow," the man snarled.

The delivery driver turned pale. He rolled his window up instantly and looked away.

The other drivers stared straight ahead, gripping their steering wheels in dead silence. Nobody dared speak up.

I pushed my door open and stepped out.

I wore an ordinary gray sweater, dark slacks, and worn boots.

The woman looked me up and down.

Her gaze swept over my faded clothes, then landed on my dented, ten-year-old Civic. A look of pure, classist revulsion twisted her face.

"You drive a three-thousand-dollar piece of scrap metal," she sneered, curling her lip.

"You reversed into me on purpose, didn't you? Some broke nobody trying to stage an accident for an insurance payout."

"You hit a stationary car from behind in a drive-thru lane," I said evenly.

"By law, you are one hundred percent liable. Show me your driver's license and insurance."

The woman burst into mocking laughter.

"Insurance? Rico, did you hear this cockroach? She wants my insurance."

The brute named Rico chuckled. "She doesn't know who she's talking to, Miss Chloe."

Chloe took a step forward, poking her manicured finger hard against my chest.

"Listen to me, peasant. You're paying me fifty thousand dollars in cash right now for the scratch on my ceramic coat."

"If you don't, Rico will break both your legs."

"Take your hand off me," I said, my voice dead calm.

Her face darkened. "Rico, put this cunt on her knees."

Rico drew a silver pistol and shoved the cold barrel right against my forehead.

"On the ground, bitch. Move, and I blow your brains out."

Inside the car, a golden retriever began barking frantically.

The passenger door clicked open.

An eighty-year-old woman in a simple cardigan stepped out cautiously, tapping a white cane on the asphalt while holding the dog's harness.

Chloe laughed with cruel delight.

"Look at this circus. A blind old crone and a mutt. What kind of gutter did you two crawl out of?"

I stared past the gun into Chloe's arrogant eyes.

"Put the gun away. You have no idea what line you're crossing."

"Line?" Chloe scoffed, flipping her blonde hair.

"Listen well, tramp. I am the wife of the next Don of this entire city."

"And Rico here is the elite personal bodyguard the Don assigned exclusively to keep me safe and wipe out anyone who crosses my path."

The woman had no idea what kind of death sentence she had just signed.

She had no idea that the quiet, blind old woman standing beside my Civic was Donna Carmela Moretti--the undisputed supreme Godmother of the Chicago Syndicate.

Thirty years ago, when Carmela's husband was assassinated, she wiped out three rival syndicates in forty-eight hours and seized the entire Midwest underworld.

Hardened mob bosses still bowed to her with trembling knees.

This morning, Carmela had simply wanted an apple turnover.

Dante had fired her loyal caregiver, claiming he hired someone better.

When the new nurse never showed, Carmela's blood sugar dropped. I drove her here in my old car.

Seeing that I didn't flinch, Chloe assumed my silence was sheer ignorance.

A cruel, triumphant sneer spread across her lips as she dropped her final boast:

"Not just any petty street gang Don, bitch. The supreme boss of the Moretti Family--Dante Moretti."

My breath hitched.

My husband.

And the personal bodyguard Dante claimed he had deployed to the southern docks was standing in front of me, pressing a gun to my forehead to protect a cheap mistress.

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