Chapter 1

Four boys grew up with me and swore they’d protect me for life—until they threw me to the cops to save another woman. They thought they could pin her crime on me and walk away with her. They forgot one thing: I’m the only daughter of the Moretti crime family—the mafia princess.

I've always been slow. Ever since I was eight. So on my first trip abroad, my four childhood friends — Adrian, Luca, Marco, and Dante, all fluent in eight languages — practically wanted to zip me into their jackets.

Even when Yolanda, my best friend, hit a pedestrian while driving without a license, they wouldn't let me step out of the car. "We've got this, Sof. Stay put."

Then the French cops rolled up. And just like that? The four of them jumped on a rented bike with Yolanda and peeled out. Left me standing there. Alone.

"What the hell just happened," I whisper.

The officer is barking questions in French. I don't understand a single word. I fumble for my phone to pull up a translator — and realize nobody bothered to load an international SIM. Not one of them.

"Great. Just great."

I end up pawning Mom's diamond pendant just to scrape together bail. The pendant. The only thing I have left of her.

I sprint back to the hotel, still shaking, and beg the boys to help me buy it back. Adrian doesn't even look up from his suitcase.

"Sofia, Jesus, you're taking forever. Our visas expire tonight. We fly out this afternoon."

"It was a fender bender," Luca snaps. "You weren't even driving. Explain yourself and move on."

I try to tell them I couldn't understand a word. That the translator app was dead without data.

Marco cuts me off. "Are you a moron? You've been around us for years and you can't pick up one French phrase?"

"Landa's right about you," Dante adds. "We spoiled you rotten. You can't do a damn thing on your own."

"Figure it out yourself. Nobody's bailing you out this time."

My throat closes up. Adrian — my fiancé, the one who's supposed to be on my side — finally softens. "Fine. I'll take care of it. Relax."

But when boarding time comes, security pulls me aside. Unresolved hit-and-run. I'm not going anywhere.

And when I check my ticket? It's not for New York. It's for Milan.

I watch the five of them stroll toward the gate, laughing, arm in arm. I wipe my face with the back of my hand and dial my lawyer back home.

"Get me a criminal attorney in Paris. One who speaks fluent French."

"And that partnership paperwork I signed making the four of them officers at Moretti and Co.? Void it. All of it. Today."