The Mafia's Vengeful Queen

Tatiana stood before the mirror, assessing the woman who looked back at her. Red dress clinging to every curve and hair swept into an elegant updo that exposed the graceful line of her neck. A careful balance: beautiful enough to distract, sophisticated enough to be taken seriously.

Her fingers traced the snake tattoo that curled along her spine, now hidden beneath silk. A reminder of who she really was.

Not Tatiana Hayes, the mysterious bartender.

Not even Tatiana Volkov, her maiden name she'd used during her years in Europe.

She was Tatiana Moretti.

Daughter of Alessandro Moretti, the man who had once controlled half of New York's underworld before Lorenzo De Luca, Massimiliano's father orchestrated his execution.

The memories came, as they always did when she allowed herself to think of her father.

She had been eight years old. Too young to understand the complexities of power and betrayal, yet old enough to remember every detail of that night.

Her father's villa in the Hamptons. The sound of breaking glass.

Her mother's frantic whispers to hide in the secret compartment behind the bookcase. The small holes in the wood that allowed her to see into the room.

Lorenzo De Luca entering with six men. Her father standing tall, even as he realized what was happening.

"Lorenzo. We've been friends for twenty years."

"And that's why I'll make this quick, old friend."

The words had confused her then. Later, she would understand. Lorenzo and Alessandro had been allies, controlling different sectors of New York's underworld with an uneasy peace. Until Lorenzo decided he wanted it all.

The single gunshot. Her father falling. Lorenzo leaning close to whisper something she couldn't hear.

Her mother had disappeared that same night. Tatiana was certain the De Lucas had kidnapped and killed her. Another piece of her family Lorenzo had stolen.

For fifteen years, she'd been searching for proof, for her mother's remains, for any confirmation of what she knew in her heart to be true.

Either way, the De Lucas had destroyed everything. Her family's assets were seized. Their name was erased from the hierarchy of power.

Tatiana herself had been smuggled to distant relatives in Russia, then shuffled between safe houses across Europe for years.

But she had survived. Learned. Built her own network. Reclaimed her father's hidden accounts. And returned to New York five years ago, operating from the shadows, gathering intelligence, preparing for the perfect moment to strike.

Now, she was finally close enough to destroy both Lorenzo and his son. Starting tonight.

She took one last glance at the bare wall that was once covered in photos, newspaper clippings, business records and surveillance shots.

As a precaution, she had taken it down the night she met Massimiliano. In case Massimiliano's men ever decided to search her apartment, they wouldn't find a single trace of the revenge that had consumed her for fifteen years.

And knowing him, it was only a matter of time.

Looking into the mirror, she dragged the deep red lipstick across her lips, satisfied with her choice. Her phone buzzed with a text from one of her informants.

Additional car arriving in 10. Two men inside another, plus the driver. Armed.

Tatiana smiled coldly at her reflection. Just as expected. Let them come. Let them search. Let them think they were the hunters tonight.

––––––––––

A sleek, matte black Lamborghini Aventador roared up to the curb precisely at eight. She watched from her window as Massimiliano emerged like a predator.

Elegant and dangerous in a tailored black suit, no tie, crisp white shirt open at the collar. He buttoned his jacket as he surveyed her building with thinly veiled disdain.

From the corner, she noted Antonio and another bodyguard watching from a separate black SUV. Keeping distance but maintaining surveillance. Typical security protocol for someone of Massimiliano's status.

Tatiana waited until the doorbell rang before gathering her clutch. Let him wait. Small power plays mattered.

When she finally opened the door, she was rewarded with the briefest flicker of something primal in his dark brown eyes before his expression returned to cool assessment.

"You're late," he said, checking his watch.

"By two minutes." She stepped into the hallway, pulling the door closed. "Your ego will survive."

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "The car's waiting."

"So is our reservation, I imagine." She walked past him toward the stairs, feeling his eyes track her movement.

The apartment was a careful construction. Lived-in enough to appear genuine but sparse enough to reveal nothing meaningful.

She'd maintained it for three years, establishing a routine visible to neighbors: entering and leaving at consistent times, receiving occasional deliveries, keeping lights on timers.

She knew that the moment they drove away, Massimiliano's men would have already been inside, searching for any clues they could find to determine her identity.

But they would have found nothing but generic furniture, basic necessities, and a few carefully selected personal items that supported her cover story.

Massimiliano opened the passenger door of the Lamborghini himself, a small smirk playing at his lips as he watched her reaction to the vehicle. Tatiana kept her expression neutral, though she noted the obvious play.

The car was meant to impress, to showcase wealth and power. But she wasn't impressed and her reaction gave nothing away.

She slid into the Italian leather seat, immediately noting the subtle tension in Massimiliano's posture as he joined her on the driver's side. Control was everything to him, and she had already disturbed it simply by making him wait.

The Lamborghini roared to life and pulled away from the curb, Massimilianohandling the powerful machine with casual expertise as they merged into Manhattan traffic.

The SUV with his security detail followed at a discreet distance. Neither spoke for several blocks, the silence heavy with unspoken calculations.

"I expected something... different." Massimiliano finally broke the silence, gesturing vaguely toward the seemingly normal building they'd left behind.

"From my apartment?" Tatiana raised an eyebrow. "What were you expecting? A sex dungeon? Conspiracy wall? Weapons cache?"

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Perhaps all three."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"I'm not disappointed. Just... curious." His eyes studied her face with unsettling intensity. "You don't fit the profile of my usual bartenders."

"And what profile is that?"

"Desperate. Easily controlled. Forgettable."

Tatiana met his gaze evenly. "Perhaps your hiring standards need revision."

He laughed then, a genuine sound that transformed his face, making him appear almost human. Almost. "Franco's never met anyone who talks to me the way you do."

"I imagine most people aren't honest with men who can have them killed."

Rather than bristle at the implication, Massimiliano leaned closer. "And you're being honest with me, Tatiana Hayes?"

The way he emphasized her surname told her everything. He'd found the inconsistencies in her background. Good. She'd left them there deliberately.

"As honest as you're being with me, I imagine." She smiled sweetly.

The car stopped before an unmarked door in Tribeca, a location she immediately recognized as Vespero, an exclusive restaurant that didn't technically exist. No sign, no website, no way to get a table unless you were among New York's most powerful.

A server appeared as soon as they approached, bowing slightly. "Mr. De Luca. Your table is ready."

They were led through the dimly lit interior to a private alcove separated from the main dining room by ornate screens. The table offered a perfect view of the entire restaurant while remaining partially concealed - a tactical choice that didn't surprise her.

Massimiliano held her chair, his fingers brushing against her bare shoulders as she sat. A deliberate touch, testing for a reaction. She gave him none.

"Wine?" he asked, after they were settled.

"Red. Something bold." She examined the menu, though she already knew its contents from her research.

He ordered a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino without consulting the wine list, a power play disguised as confidence.

"So," he began, once the sommelier had poured and departed, "tell me about yourself."

"What would you like to know?" She took a deliberate sip of wine, savoring the rich flavor.

"Let's start with where you're really from."

Tatiana's lips curved. "Straight to the interrogation, then? Not even going to pretend this is a normal date?"

"Would you prefer I lie?"

"I'd prefer you admit this is about control, not curiosity."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "You're an unknown variable in my carefully controlled environment. Of course I want information."

"And you always get what you want." It wasn't a question.

"Always." The word carried both promise and threat.

Tatiana leaned forward, dropping her voice. "Must be boring, then. Having everything handed to you on a silver platter."

For a moment, genuine surprise flashed across his face before it was replaced by cool amusement. "You think I've had it easy?"

"Haven't you? Daddy's golden boy, heir to an empire built before you were born."

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't I, Massimiliano?" She deliberately used his full name, watching for the reaction. "Son of Lorenzo De Luca, New York's most feared mafia king. Harvard Business School dropout. Not because you couldn't handle it, but because daddy needed help with the family business after the Colombians tried to take over in 2015."

His hand moved with startling speed, fingers wrapping around her throat. Not squeezing, just... present. A reminder of power.

"Who are you?" His voice was deadly quiet, his face inches from hers. Close enough that she could smell his cologne. A mildly intoxicating smell of smoky oud, leather, and the faintest trace of spice that shouldn't have been distracting but was.

She didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Instead, she held his gaze, keeping her breathing steady despite the pressure against her windpipe.

"I told you. I'm a bartender."

"Bullshit." His thumb traced the line of her jaw, the gesture almost tender despite the threat. "Bartenders don't know the details of cartel territory disputes from eight years ago."

"Maybe I read the papers."

His grip on her neck tightened. "Try again."