Christmas Downfall: Don, You Shouldn’t Harass A Mafia Princess

The pungent mix of disinfectant and cigarette smoke hit me full in the face the moment I slammed the door of the tattoo parlor shut.

I slid into the black Bentley parked at the alley entrance; the cashmere blanket the housekeeper had laid out on the backseat leather that morning was still there—the very one Daniel used to fuss over, always saying, "Anna can't stand the cold."

My phone screen lit up.

At the very top of the contacts list was an unlabeled number.

I hesitated for a split second with my finger hovering over it, then pressed the call button, my voice cold as ice: "Have Lola at the abandoned warehouse by the western docks by twelve o'clock." There was a half-second pause on the other end before the person replied promptly: "Right away, Madam. Shall we clear the area first?"

"No need."

I glanced at the warm yellow glow of the tattoo parlor in the rearview mirror—Daniel's so-called friends were probably still gathered around him, laughing and joking.

"Let the Whites know this: I, the daughter of the Brown family, a mafia princess, am no pushover to be branded with filth on my chest."

I hung up the phone and ran a hand over the fabric at my collar.

Beneath it, the words "Slut" burned like a red-hot iron.

Ivan House was the biggest underground casino under the Whites' control.

Lola had dared to mark me with that tattoo only because she knew Daniel would let her get away with it.

Neon signs flashed past the car window.

I thought back to six years ago on that Christmas eve, when Daniel had knelt in the estate courtyard carpeted with golden roses, a pigeon's egg diamond ring in his hand, and said, "Anna, everything I have is yours."

Back then, he'd just taken over the Whites, and to curry favor with my father—the man in charge of the White family's arms smuggling routes in Southeast Asia—he'd groveled at our feet like a nobody. Six years.

Turns out, that was more than enough time for golden roses to rot into dirt.

The rusty iron gate of the western warehouse screeched open.

Two men in black suits were dragging Lola along, a gag stuffed in her mouth.

Her eyes went wide as saucers when she saw me; she struggled wildly, trying to lunge at me, only to be forced down onto her knees, her legs pinned firmly in place.

I sat down on a makeshift operating table, next to which sat a set of sterilized skin grafting equipment.

"Take the gag out of her mouth,".

The moment Lola could speak, she shrieked at the top of her lungs:

"Anna! Are you insane? Don Daniel'll never let you get away with this! He's the head of the Whites—how dare you lay a finger on me…"

I chuckled, walking over to her and squatting down.

I hooked a finger under her chin, forcing her to look at me.

"I'm just here to ‘correct' your little ‘joke.'"

I nodded at the doctor to step forward.

"She loves inking other people's skin so much? Today, she'll get to feel what it's like to have her ‘joke' branded onto her own flesh and blood."

Lola's face drained of all color in an instant.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, smudging her makeup: "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Sister Anna! It was Daniel who told me to—"

"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Daniel told you to carve obscenities on my chest? Daniel told you to replace his name with yours on Christmas eve?"

Her mouth clamped shut, her eyes darting around nervously, avoiding my gaze.

I stood up and walked back to the operating table, picking up a syringe of anesthetic.

"Do you think the Whites coddle you because you're young? Or because you know how to entertain them at the casino tables?"

I turned back to the operating table and handed the anesthetic syringe to the doctor. "Begin."

Lola broke down into violent sobs, trembling all over:

“Daniel! Help me! Please help me!"