The Don and His Mafia Princess

CHAPTER 5

I step out of the mall, my arms laden with shopping bags, a mix of designer labels and high-end boutique purchases. The sun is setting, casting a warm glow over the parking lot as I make my way to my car. It's been weeks since our return from Sicily. I had hoped that my father would finally recognize my potential and give me more responsibilities at the office, especially since I didn't cause any trouble for Santiago during our time there. However, much to my dismay, nothing has changed. It is as if my efforts and achievements have gone unnoticed, leaving me feeling invisible and undervalued.

In an attempt to distract myself from the gnawing sense of disappointment, I decided to spend the day indulging in a shopping spree, using my father's money. I know that the amount I spend won't even make a dent in his vast fortune, but a part of me hopes that the constant pings of the transactions will serve as a reminder of my existence. It is a petty move, driven by a desire to be acknowledged and to inflict a small measure of pain on my father for his lack of recognition.

It isn't as if I am clamoring to be inducted into the shadowy folds of our family's mafia dealings. No, my aspirations are somewhat more mundane, yet no less significant. I long to be a part of the legitimate facade we present to the world, the construction company that serves as the cornerstone of our empire. This company, our alibi to the government's prying eyes, is more than just a front. We are creators and builders of dreams in the form of houses, hotels, and anything else one could imagine. Our craftsmanship dots the landscape across the United States, from the humble abode to the grandeur of luxury hotels. Among our latest ventures is the renovation of the Costanzo Hotel, a project that symbolizes the breadth of our influence and the depth of our ambition.

This construction empire is a legacy I yearn to be a part of—not for the power it wields but for the opportunity to build something tangible, something real. Yet, as the city lights blur past my window on the ride home, I can't help but feel like an outsider looking in, yearning for a place within my own family, within my own legacy.

I glide the car into its familiar spot in the garage, the engine's purr dying down as I cut the ignition. The garage of our mansion is expansive, with space for multiple vehicles and rows of gleaming luxury cars. Tools are neatly organized on the pegboard walls, and shelves are lined with paint cans and gardening supplies.

Stepping out into the quiet, I make my way into the house, the air of the familiar space wrapping around me like a well-worn cloak. The grand foyer greets me with its marble floors and sweeping staircase, adorned with ornate railings and intricate carvings. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the opulent surroundings. I ascend the stairs to my room, the carpet beneath my feet plush and comforting. Upon entering, my lovely cat Fiona scampers over, and I bend down to give her an affectionate kiss. Straightening up, I peel off my clothes, a heap of fabric forming on the floor, before making my way to the bathroom for a refreshing shower.

The shower's embrace is a cascade of warmth, the steam filling the room as I let the water run. The tiles are cool against my skin as I step in, and the sound of the running water echoes softly against the marble walls. I close my eyes, letting the heat seep into my muscles, washing away the veneer of retail therapy and the lingering frustration that clings to my skin. I let the water run, hoping it might also rinse away the disappointment that seems to have taken up permanent residence in my chest.

Refreshed and dressed but not quite rejuvenated, I tread lightly down the stairs to the dining room, where the familiar tableau of family dinner awaits.

Mama's voice, ever gentle, cuts through the tension I carry. "Hello, Honey, how was your day?"

I lean in for a brief, affectionate peck on her cheek before taking my seat. "Good," I reply, the word a half-truth.

Santiago playfully raises an eyebrow and asks, " What did you do all day, shopping??" I respond with an eye roll, knowing he's fully aware of my shopping escapade from seeing me laden with bags. Glancing toward Dad, I observe his lack of reprimand or even a hint of disapproval regarding my day of indulgence at the mall. He remains absorbed in his meal, meticulously cutting into his steak as if my existence is as insignificant as the peas on his plate.

A knot of familiar resentment tightens in my stomach, his usual indifference a bitter pill that never gets easier to swallow. I steel myself, determined not to let it show, not to let it ruin my mood. I fill my plate with the food before me and try to eat, but each bite is a struggle to ground myself in the present Moment, not let the undercurrent of my father's silent dismissal wash me away.

"Did you find anything you like?" Mama's voice, gentle and interested, asks.

"Yeah, a few professional outfits for when I start work," I reply, my voice laced with a hint of hope as my eyes flick toward Dad. Yet, he remains in his world, his gaze never meeting mine.

"That's nice, dear," Mama responds, giving me a little smile. At that Moment, the realization hit me like a wave—if I ever want to work, to truly be a part of the family business, I need to voice my desires. My lip part, ready to breach the subject, but I'm cut off before a word can escape.

"How was your day at the office, Santiago?" Dad's baritone voice, authoritative and commanding, fills the room, directed at my brother. My heart sinks, the familiar churn of dismissal in my stomach intensifying.

Santiago straightens, clearing his throat. "It was fine, sir."

"Were you able to get everything done today?" Dad inquires, his interest in Santiago's day starkly contrasting with his neglect of mine.

"Not all, but most. Hopefully, I should be done tomorrow." Santiago responds. At this Moment, I come to the bitter realization that Dad won't acknowledge me. I dive into my food, the weight of his dismissal heavy on my shoulders, making the meal before me seem unappetizing. I pout, aimlessly pushing the mashed potatoes around my plate.

"That's good," Dad continues, then unexpectedly, "Andrea, I need you to do something for me." My head snaps up, confusion and surprise mingling in my mind. He said my name, Andrea. That's me. Santiago's nudge brings me fully back to the Moment, his gesture a silent encouragement to respond.

"You need me to do something?" My voice is tinged with disbelief.

"I just said that" Dad replies, his face stern and indifferent. I swallow hard, the lump in my throat making it difficult to speak. I sit up straighter, dropping my fork onto the table with a clatter, all signs of my previous disheartenment momentarily forgotten.

"How can I be of help, Dad?" My voice is steadier than I feel, a mix of nervousness and eagerness to seize whatever opportunity this might be to prove my worth.

"The company is renovating the Costanzo Hotel in California. I need you to go down there tomorrow and see how everything is going," Dad states, his voice carrying the weight of an order rather than a request.

"You want me to go?" I ask, my eyes widening in surprise. He slams his palm against the table in response, and I can't help but flinch at the sudden action.

"Andrea, do I need to repeat everything I say?" His tone is laced with annoyance, and I quickly shake my head.

"No, Dad, you don't," I reply, shaking my head.

"The jet will be ready by 9 a.m. Don't f*****g miss your flight," he warns before he returns to his meal.

I exhale slowly, a mixture of relief and anticipation settling over me as I relax back into my seat. My gaze drifts to Santiago, who offers a supportive thumbs-up before leaning in to whisper, "Don't mess it up."

"I won't," I whisper back, a silent promise to myself more than to him.

Dad's voice cuts through the quiet again, and I tense, ready to absorb his next directive. "Lorenzo's boy is going to be in town, so once you arrive in California, pay a visit to him and ask if he has any complaints or additions he wants to make to the building."

"I will," I respond, my mind racing, wondering which of Mr. Costanzo's sons it could be? I find myself hoping it's Thomas, with whom I've always got along with. Yet, a small part of me hopes it might be Stefano, wishing to see him again.