Underboss’s Ex, Mafia’s Queen Chapter 03

Underboss’s Ex, Mafia’s Queen Chapter 03

“Don’t be so dramatic. I’ll buy you a new one. Giselle will apologize. We can still—”

“I’m not being dramatic.” I peeled his hands away from my waist finger by finger and turned to face him. “For two years, I drained every penny I had to pay for your so-called treatment when you claimed you couldn’t walk. I even paid for your parents’ funeral when you said they died. It was all a lie, wasn’t it?”

His expression shifted.

“Lena, please, it wasn’t all a lie. My leg… it’s better, yes, but I’m still mentally and emotionally shattered. Are you really going to leave me? I knew you never truly cared about me—”

He was still trying to manipulate me. I bent down, picked up the broken, empty delivery cooler, and walked out.

Outside, Giselle’s voice carried over the rain.

“Forget her, Vince. You don’t actually care about that poor girl, do you?”

“Come on. You’re the Romano family’s Underboss. She was just a front the whole time.”

I didn’t wait to hear his reply.

I stepped onto the sidewalk and dialed my supervisor.

“Lena? You’re quitting? You’re our top delivery courier. What about your boyfriend? Is he—”

“He’s fine,” I said, staring at the churning river. “Perfectly fine.”

“Thank God! That’s great news! Things must be looking up, huh? After everything he’s been through, I bet he’s treating you like a queen.”

I hung up.

The rain kept falling.

Eventually it stopped, but the city stayed gloomy and gray, as if the rain had washed all the color away.

A bitter laugh escaped me. A queen? The man I loved had faked his illness, forcing me to scrape by just to support him. And all of it had been his twisted punishment—all to please another woman.

Fine. It was all over now.

The next morning, I dragged my two beat-up suitcases into the lobby of the Astoria Grand Hotel.

Heads turned. Whispers spread through the room. My hoodie and scuffed sneakers clashed sharply with the polished marble floors and the crowd’s crisp tailored suits.

“Well, look who’s here. The delivery girl herself.”

The voice cut through the lobby’s hum.

Giselle.

Of course she was here. Her entourage fanned out behind her like a pack of wolves.

I kept walking.

Her companions stepped forward and blocked my path.

“Take a good look at her.” She wrinkled her nose dramatically. “Do you smell that? Body odor, or the greasy stench of cheap takeout?”

Her friends laughed on cue.

“I guess Chicago’s rules have changed. Now even drifters get into five-star hotels.”

“Watch it. Don’t let her near the carpets.”

“Vince dumped her, so now she’s on the prowl for a new sugar daddy. Think some old rich guy will take her in now?”

I stopped and turned around. “Get out of my way.”

“Me? Move aside?” Giselle’s smile vanished in an instant, and she shoved me hard.

I stumbled back, slamming my shoulder into a massive display cabinet lined with vintage bourbon and imported wine. Glassware clinked loudly, bottles wobbling on the shelves.

Then came a deafening crash.

A crystal bottle shattered across the tile floor. Dark bourbon pooled in the tile grout, bleeding across the floor like fresh blood. Screams and gasps erupted through the lobby.

A brief, deafening silence settled over the entire lobby.

Then the laughter started up again.

“Good grief! Look at this mess!”

” Check the inventory. Tally up the total damage.”

“Pappy Van Winkle, Macallan 25, and several cases of Château Margaux—”

” We’re looking at six figures easy, possibly seven.”

“She’d work delivery runs for a century and still never afford to cover these damages.”

Giselle stepped lightly over the broken glass and crouched down beside me.

“You’ll never be able to cover these damages, Lena,” she said, wearing a sickly sweet, venomous smile. “But don’t worry. We’ll help you out. All you have to do is lick everything off the floor. One dollar per lick. And you don’t stop until I say so.”

Her friends closed in around me. Someone grabbed my arms. Someone else yanked my hair. Another shoved my shoulders toward the ground.

“Get down on your knees.”

“Start licking, delivery girl.”

Shards of gashed my palms, and bourbon stung the open cuts. Shame settled heavy as lead in my chest—but beneath it, something colder and sharper was stinging inside me.

I lifted my head, my voice raw.

“Do you know who my father is?”

A beat of silence.

The room burst into raucous laughter right after.

“She’s lost her mind.”

“Like anyone cares who some delivery girl’s father is.”

“Oh please, is he the governor of New York or something?”

I roared. “I’m a Moretti. I am Don Moretti’s daughter!”

Giselle doubled over laughing, smearing her mascara with tears.

“You’re saying you’re the Principessa of the Moretti family? Please. Everyone knows the Moretti daughter is engaged to Sebastian Lombardi—my brother. Go ahead and claim Don Moretti as your father if you like, but unless your fiancé shows up to back you up, you’re just a fraud in a hoodie.”

They pushed harder, forcing me down.

Then—footsteps. Heavy and steady.

The crowd split apart as if a current pushed them aside.

“Isn’t that Don Sebastian Lombardi?”

“Of course it is. No one else cuts such an impressive figure.”

Sebastian strode across the lobby, his black overcoat cutting through the chaos. His eyes landed on me—on my knees in broken glass and liquor, my hair a mess, every ounce of my dignity stripped bare—and his expression turned ice-cold.

“What the hell is going on here?”