Chapter 2The Don’s Favorite Assassin

I left the blood of New York behind. I started fresh in LA.

For a year, I put away my guns. I played the part of the perfect, gentle fiancée.

Downstairs, the engagement party was in full swing. California's elite were toasting my fiancé, Tristan, the future governor.

I slipped away to avoid the two-faced politicians. I pushed open the master bedroom door on the second floor.

But the scene on the bed was trashier than a downtown strip club.

My fiancé—the one who preached morality and claimed to despise the mob—had his shirt half-open. His hands were tied to the headboard with his own tie.

Riding him was Candy, the club’s star dancer.

She wore cheap, pink leopard-print lingerie. And she was five months pregnant.

Tristan’s face went white with fear. He fumbled with the sheets. “Scarlett! Let me explain, I was drunk…”

Candy just leaned against his chest. She rolled her eyes at me, a taunting look on her face. “What’s the big deal? Didn’t you say you were breaking up with this nobody tonight anyway?”

I leaned against the doorframe. I couldn't even be bothered to pretend I was angry.

“Your standards have really dropped, Tristan.” I swirled the champagne in my glass and sneered. “You act so classy. Is this what you’re really into?”

Hasty footsteps clicked down the hall.

Tristan’s mother, the mayor’s daughter who always acted so high and mighty, stormed in with four armed guards.

She completely ignored the drama on the bed. Her cruel eyes locked onto me.

“Since you’ve seen it, I won’t beat around the bush.” The old bitch lifted her chin, her mask finally off. “Tristan is running for governor next month. Candy is carrying our family’s heir. As for you, a bastard with no real family name… you were lucky my son even looked at you.”

Her greedy eyes narrowed as she took two steps closer.

“Transfer your entire trust fund to Tristan’s campaign account. Do it, and I’ll graciously allow you to keep the title of ‘fiancée.’”

The guards behind her stepped forward. Their hands rested on their holsters.

“In Los Angeles, we are the law!” the old woman sneered. “Don’t give us the money, and I’ll use my connections to freeze your assets. I’ll have you thrown in jail on some trumped-up charge!”

I laughed coldly at their disgusting hypocrisy.

So this is what "clean" politicians were like. They were filthier than the mob.

Suddenly, I missed that cold-hearted Don in New York. I missed Marcello.

At least he was honest about being a monster. He didn’t waste time with words; he just pulled his gun. He played the game of power a thousand times better than these California phonies.

I pulled the three-carat diamond ring from my finger.

I dropped it into my champagne glass. It landed with a soft plink, the bubbles fizzing around it.

“Use this rock to buy her some decent lingerie. Leopard print is tacky on a pregnant woman.”

I slammed the glass down on the console table with a crash.

“And as for this engagement… I’m done.”

“Stop her!” The old woman shrieked, stunned by the cold fury in my eyes.

A guard reached for his gun. I didn't blink. I grabbed a nearby heavy bronze sculpture and smashed it into his jaw.

A crack of bone. The two-hundred-pound man crumpled to the floor.

The other three guards froze.

I didn’t spare the clowns another glance. I turned and walked away.

At the door, I looked back. I gave Tristan a look of pure pity.

“You picked the wrong girl to screw over.”