Destiny. What is that? Something you choose? Or something that was chosen for you?
Being born into a family like mine—powerful, vicious, affluent, and revered—was a privilege. But it was the kind that came with a cost, a cost most people wouldn’t understand. Everything, they say, has its pros and cons. But what happens when the cons start outweighing the pros?
Countless girls out there would do anything—just about anything—to have what I had. I was the envy of many, a role model to those who believed that I was the perfect woman: the perfect daughter, the apple of her father’s eyes.
They were wrong, though, all of them. I was nowhere close to being perfect, not even by a long shot. And those who wished to walk in my shoes had no idea what it was like being me—Alessia Romano.
My last name alone was a burden, one so heavy that it weighed me down more with each passing day. There was no room for failure, no excuses for misdeeds, and no mistake ever went unpunished. Every day was the same for me—struggling, striving to be the woman Dad expected me to be.
As a Romano, my life had already been mapped out for me long before I was even born. My future was planned, my destiny set in motion, and I had no say in it whatsoever. How could I when my father was Dante Romano, head of the Italian Mafia in the city of Chicago?
Father wasn’t the type of man to be stood up to—well, unless you no longer needed your legs. He wasn’t the type to take no for an answer, nor was he the type to go easy on disobedience. He was a ruthless commander, a brute who ruled the Italian crime syndicate with an iron fist. He was feared by many, including his own family, because he raised us, his children, with the same viciousness with which he ruled his business.
Dante Romano wasn’t exactly known for his softness. No, not at all. He was a man as hard as a rock, as cold as ice, and with a heart made of stone. That was my father, the one who bore me and trained me with the same strictness he applied to training my brothers before me.
One would think that being the only daughter would somehow make me immune to my father’s wrath. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. My femininity was not a privilege, not in the least, because I was raised just as my brothers were.
And now, I had to follow in their footsteps: study law and handle the family’s legal issues. Period. No room for debate, no questions asked. As cruel as that expectation was for me, I knew better than to resist.
In this world, “choice” was a term that I was unfamiliar with, a luxury that even my father’s wealth couldn’t buy. Luckily for me, I learned this harsh reality at an early age; whatever my father said was final. He was never wrong. He knew best and must be obeyed at all times.
Law was the path that I was set on, a path that he chose for me, as he did for my brothers. But as much as it wasn’t my choice, I somehow learned to be good at it—like really good at it. Law was all I knew growing up, considering that all my brothers were lawyers. I spent my entire life learning how to make the law dance, and now, I could effortlessly do so.
To some extent, I was a master in this field, and I understood its loopholes and weaknesses. To most people, the law was a rigid set of rules—absolute, unbreakable, even. But that wasn’t the case. No. It was a game, one at which I was starting to excel. To me, it was just a negotiation, a puzzle to be solved with the right words, pressure, and leverage.
As Father would always say, “The most powerful person in the room isn’t the one with the gun. It’s the one who convinces the wielder not to pull the trigger.”
It was all about mind games—strategic thinking—outsmarting your enemies, striking where it hurt the most, and making sure they never saw it coming. As time went on, I forced myself into enjoying the profession, the power that came with knowing how to twist the law in my family’s favor.
The lecture hall was a sea of students, some seriously taking notes, others barely pretending to listen as the professor went on and on about legal ethics. How ironic!
I sat there, near the back, relaxed in my chair with my fingers idly twirling a pen. My eyes were fixed across the hall, paying rapt attention to the professor’s voice, a monotonous hum beneath the steady flicker of fluorescent lights.
“You see, the foundation of legal ethics lies in integrity,” he said, pacing at the front of the class, his gaze sweeping across the sea of students. “And what does integrity mean in our world today?” he asked, pausing for a moment before continuing. “It means that a lawyer must uphold justice, remain impartial, and always act in the best interest of the law.”
My brows rose reflexively, appreciating the irony of his statement. Impartiality. Justice. Integrity. Since when did those words ever apply in real life? They sounded rather noble in theory, but in practice, they were nothing but obstacles to be maneuvered around. There was no ethics in law anymore. At least not in reality because the real world didn’t reward honesty. No. It rewarded those who knew how to manipulate the system in their favor.
Justice, they say, is blind. Yeah, right.
Every student in this hall knew the justice system was already corrupt. But by all means, let’s pretend we had absolutely no idea how things functioned outside the confines of this classroom.
I glanced around, watching my mates nod their heads in affirmation, as if they agreed, as if they believed a single word. However, I couldn’t rule out the fact that there were those who truly believed in pure justice, the likes of Hannah Montero.
My eyes darted over to her seat, and a smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I watched her pay close attention, nodding her head. Hannah was naive. She thought the world was black and white and that bad people would always end up in jail. But she was mistaken; there were more good people in jail than there were bad ones. Hannah would learn the hard way if she still chose to believe in the purity of a corrupt system.
I, on the other hand, was born into a world of corruption, violence, and all manner of evil. That was why I was here. Not to serve the law. But to learn how to use it—to manipulate it to dance to my tune.
***
That evening, I attended a private family dinner at the Romano grand estate—my safe haven and my prison. My older brothers, Bruno and Marco, were present, along with my favorite uncle Roberto.
I sat at the dining table, a genuine smile perched on my lips. My brown eyes shifted across the Romano brothers’ faces as their voices filled the air. The atmosphere was alive with talks about business, supply lines, alliances, debts owed, and debts collected.
Grand chandeliers worth more than most people’s annual income cast a warm, golden light over the vast dining hall. A long mahogany table stretched down the center, set with fine crystal and polished silverware. The rich scent of aged wine and slow-roasted lamb wafted through the air, filling my nostrils.
It was nice having them over—at least now, I got to spend some time with my brothers. It was always lonely here, and Dad wasn’t the chatty type, so having the whole family around seemed like a blessing, especially with Uncle Roberto joining tonight’s meeting.
He was Dad’s younger brother, a lot more gentle and a lot less serious than my father. Uncle Roberto was the jovial one—a free-spirited man who always had a way to lighten up everyone’s mood wherever he found himself. He was the exact opposite of his brother, a stark contrast.
Sometimes, I wished both brothers had switched places so Uncle Roberto would be my father and Dad my uncle. But that ship had sailed, and my fate was sealed already.
But make no mistake, Uncle Roberto was just as deadly as he was “nice.” He was the kind of man that would send his enemies to hell with a fucking smile on his face. My brothers called him “The Joker,” and in my opinion, that was a perfect term for him. In the criminal underworld, people feared my father more, but they knew better than to piss off Roberto as well.
As the men talked, I sat there in my elegant green gown, my manicured fingers cradling the neck of my champagne flute. Occasionally, I chuckled at Uncle Roberto’s random jokes. I raised the glass to my lips and took a sip, suppressing my smile. The men were discussing pressing issues regarding the family business, allies and foes, and somehow, my uncle found a way to lighten the mood.
“Why do you always joke even in conversations like this?” Dad asked, his voice deep and husky as his eyebrows knitted together.
“And why do you always have to be so serious, brother?” Uncle Roberto asked, chuckling, his light blue eyes darting across the other family members. “Take it easy with the grumpiness. It’s not good for your heart,” he teased, sipping his wine.
“You know, uncle, I had no idea you were an expert in cardiac anatomy,” my brother, Bruno, said, his tone laced with mild sarcasm.
“I’m an expert in many things, nephew.” He laughed, ignoring my brother’s dry wit. “For some, I use my tongue as a tool.”
The hall was silent for a moment, and brows knitted, puzzled looks settling on all our faces. Marco’s bacon stopped halfway to his mouth as he exchanged glances with our father.
I was confused at first, shifting my gaze from one person to another in an attempt to understand the cause of this brief silence.
Then, it hit me when Bruno grumbled out loud, “Oh, come on, Uncle Roberto!” He dropped back into his chair, a faint scowl flashing in his gaze. “You didn’t have to say that. Now, I’m stuck with that image in my head.”
“Shall I give more details?” Uncle Roberto asked, his tone mild and teasing.
“No!” my brothers chorused.
“Jesus Christ!” Bruno mumbled under his breath, his head down and fingers rubbing his forehead.
Uncle Roberto laughed. “That’s for mocking your uncle, boy.” He extended his hand and ruffled Bruno’s hazelnut-brown hair.
I lowered my face, suppressing my smile, pretending I had no idea what Uncle Roberto’s analogy meant.
He turned to me, a wide grin spreading beneath his salt-and-pepper mustache. “Shit. La mia preziosa gemma, I forgot you were at the table, too.” The Italian statement was his cute way of referring to me as his precious gem.
I set down my glass and threw up my hands defensively. “Don’t worry, uncle. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” My lips curved into a faint smile.
“Yeah, right,” Bruno said, sarcasm creeping into his tone.
Uncle Roberto shot a quick glance in his direction. “You haven’t learned, have you?”
“Please, no more.” He clasped his palms over his ears, eyes dropping to the floor.
We laughed.
Uncle Roberto beamed at me. “So tell me, Ciccina, how’s law school treating you?”
Ciccina—a nickname he gave me since I was three years old. It was Italian for “little one,” and even though I was all grown up now, the name still stuck. Plus, my petite frame didn’t help at all.
“Have they figured out yet that you’re too smart for them?” he added, chuckling.
A small smirk tugged at the corners of my lips as I tried to sound as modest as I could. “Not yet, uncle. I’m not sure.”
“Ah. It’s your professors I pity.” He laughed lightly. “Poor bastards, thinking they’re there to actually teach you, Alessia Romano, who has the law coursing through her veins. Idioti.” He dramatically waved a hand, chewing his vegetables. “One day, you will run circles around all of them…and when that day comes, I hope you remember your favorite uncle.” The fleeting pause ensued when he locked eyes with me.
My response was a warm smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.
One of my father’s men—his lieutenant, Mario—walked over to where my father was seated and lowered his head, whispering something in Dad’s ear. At first, I thought it was nothing until I watched Dad’s eyes narrow. His jaw tightened, and his expression turned dark. Sinister.
Whatever information Mario had passed to him must have been something serious, considering how tense he’d suddenly become.
“Dante, È tutto a posto?” Uncle Roberto asked him if everything was alright.
Dad’s fingers tightened around his fork, a glint of anger simmering beneath the surface. “The shipment deal with the Russians has gone sideways,” he said, his voice a throaty growl.
My brothers looked at each other, their expressions darkening, a mix of worry and fear flickering in their eyes.
“That can’t be good,” Uncle Roberto said, sipping his wine.
“Nik Tarasov is threatening me,” Dad added, his grip tightening around the fork. “The son of a bitch thinks threats will get him what he wants.” His voice was laced with contempt. “He forgets who he’s dealing with.”
Even though everyone at the table tried to act all calm and composed, I could still sense the tension in the air. And I knew why.
The name Father had mentioned rang a bell in my head—Nik Tarasov. I knew who he was. Or at least I was familiar with his reputation. Word on the streets was that he was a brute, a cruel Bratva leader known for his strategic thinking and unforgiving nature. Nikita Tarasov was a man of few words, but he had a subtle way of striking fear in the hearts of his enemies.
“Russian pigs,” Marco cursed under his breath.
“They might be pigs, but they’re not the kind of pigs we want to have as enemies,” Uncle Roberto said, setting down his wine glass, his gaze darting toward my father.
“You overestimate those assholes, brother,” Dad said to him, his tone laced with disdain.
“Not all of them,” he replied. “Just one. Nik.”
“Nik is nothing but a violent thug,” Dad blurted out, his voice venomous. “He’s insignificant and unworthy of my attention.” His face contorted into a frown, his breathing ragged.
So much anger for someone so insignificant and unworthy of his attention. Something wasn’t right.
Uncle Roberto stared at his brother for a moment, silent with an unwavering gaze. “You know best, Dante.” He broke eye contact and returned to his meal.
Beneath the calm exterior, I could feel my uncle’s unease, which was strange because he was hardly ever uneasy about anything. My brothers were quietly eating their food, the sound of clinking cutlery filling the air.
As the evening unfolded, Dad cleared his throat and faced me, wearing an affectionate smile. “You’ll finish school soon,” he said in an attempt to fill the awkward silence.
I met his gaze, a faint smile twitching on my lips.
He continued, “Your uncle was right; you do have the law coursing through your veins. You know every section of the Constitution by heart.” Pride flickered in his gaze, stirring a flutter in my chest. “I cannot wait to see you in action, working with the rest of us in the real world.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “I have no doubts that you’ll be one of the very best, Alessia.”
I heaved a sigh, feeling a rare warmth spread across my body. My sole purpose was to make him proud, to be the perfect daughter he wanted.
“Grazie, papà,” I thanked him with a wide smile and a heart full of gladness.
