Sold Out by My Childhood Sweethearts, But I'm the Mafia's Only Princess

Four boys grew up with me and swore they’d protect me for life—until they threw me to the cops to save another woman. They thought they could pin her crime on me and walk away with her. They forgot one thing: I’m the only daughter of the Moretti crime family—the mafia princess. I've always been slow. Ever since I was eight. So on my first trip abroad, my four childhood friends — Adrian, Luca, Marco, and Dante, all fluent in eight languages — practically wanted to zip me into their jackets. Even when Yolanda, my best friend, hit a pedestrian while driving without a license, they wouldn't let me step out of the car. "We've got this, Sof. Stay put." Then the French cops rolled up. And just like that? The four of them jumped on a rented bike with Yolanda and peeled out. Left me standing there. Alone. "What the hell just happened," I whisper. The officer is barking questions in French. I don't understand a single word. I fumble for my phone to pull up a translator — and realize nobody bothered to load an international SIM. Not one of them. "Great. Just great." I end up pawning Mom's diamond pendant just to scrape together bail. The pendant. The only thing I have left of her. I sprint back to the hotel, still shaking, and beg the boys to help me buy it back. Adrian doesn't even look up from his suitcase. "Sofia, Jesus, you're taking forever. Our visas expire tonight. We fly out this afternoon." "It was a fender bender," Luca snaps. "You weren't even driving. Explain yourself and move on." I try to tell them I couldn't understand a word. That the translator app was dead without data. Marco cuts me off. "Are you a moron? You've been around us for years and you can't pick up one French phrase?" "Landa's right about you," Dante adds. "We spoiled you rotten. You can't do a damn thing on your own." "Figure it out yourself. Nobody's bailing you out this time." My throat closes up. Adrian — my fiancé, the one who's supposed to be on my side — finally softens. "Fine. I'll take care of it. Relax." But when boarding time comes, security pulls me aside. Unresolved hit-and-run. I'm not going anywhere. And when I check my ticket? It's not for New York. It's for Milan. I watch the five of them stroll toward the gate, laughing, arm in arm. I wipe my face with the back of my hand and dial my lawyer back home. "Get me a criminal attorney in Paris. One who speaks fluent French." "And that partnership paperwork I signed making the four of them officers at Moretti and Co.? Void it. All of it. Today."

The lawyer arrives fast. Sharp suit, sharper eyes. Name's Ethan Blake, American, works out of a firm on Rue Saint-Honoré. Within an hour he's proven the crash had nothing to do with me. The cops release me with an apology. "Now can I have my mother's pendant back?" I ask. The officer blinks at me like I've grown a second head. "Your fiancé already picked it up, mademoiselle. Showed us a photo of the two of you. Said it meant the world to you." He slides the release log across the counter. Adrian Pierce. That's his signature. Clear as day. "That son of a—" I call Adrian. He hits decline before the second ring. I call again. Phone's off. I try Luca. Off. Marco. Off. Dante. Off. Four phones. Four best friends. All dark at exactly the same time. Like they synced their damn watches. Ethan steps closer, voice low. "Ms. Moretti, I can file suit. Handing over your property to a third party without authorization is a serious breach. But your fiancé could face charges. Possibly jail time." I shake my head. It can't be that bad. Adrian probably just grabbed the pendant and forgot to hand it off. Then my phone buzzes. Yolanda posted on Instagram. "Coming home from vacation to gifts already! Love my four boys 💎✨" The photo makes my stomach drop. A diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist. Chunky. Expensive. And there — in the corner of the shot — the receipt. 19.99 grams. The exact weight of my mother's pendant. "No. No, no, no." My hands shake so hard I almost drop the phone dialing her. "Yolanda. How could you melt down my mother's pendant into a bracelet for yourself? You knew that was the only thing I had left of her!" She jumps in fast. "Sofia, honey, you've got it all wrong! The boys pooled their money and bought this for me as a graduation gift—" "A gift? Then why does it weigh exactly the same as my mom's pendant? Down to the gram?" Silence on the line. "You made me take the fall in a country where I can't even read a menu — fine. But my mom's pendant? Really, Landa? You couldn't leave me *that*?" Dead silence. For a second, I think maybe they finally get it. Then Adrian's voice comes through. Cool. Flat. "The bracelet's from us. Your pendant's with me." "I know you're upset about Paris. But this was for your own good. Time you learned to stand on your own two feet." "The fact that you're calling us right now? Proves Yolanda's method worked. You should be thanking her. Not slinging accusations."

Adrian's words hit like a slap. And the other three? They pile right on. "You've been useless since we were kids, Sof. Everything's gotta be handed to you." "Eight years old and you wouldn't sleep alone. Fifteen and still scared of the school bus. Landa waited years for a graduation trip abroad and even that had to revolve around babysitting you 24/7." "Come *on*, Sofia. You're twenty-three, not three. Grow the hell up." I can't breathe. I want to defend myself. But where do I even start? Because I am slow. Everybody says so. I wasn't always like this though. When I was eight, the four of them got snatched. Kidnapping ring. My parents didn't wait for the cops. They went in themselves. Guns, everything. The boys came home alive. My parents didn't. The men killed them right in front of me. Made me watch. After that, something inside me just… broke. Couldn't be alone. Couldn't talk to strangers. Any new room, any new face, and my body would seize up until I wet myself. The four of them stuck with me through every second of the therapy. Held my hand through years of rehab. Once, some kid at school called me a spoiled freak. They got him expelled by the end of the week. Their favorite line: "Sof's parents died saving us. This is what we owe her." "Even if she stays a mess her whole life, we've got her." People used to say I was the luckiest girl on the East Coast. That most princesses only get one knight, and I had four. I believed it too. Until senior year of high school. When Yolanda Cruz — an orphan, same as me on paper — transferred into my class. Her story broke my heart. I took her under my wing. But the boys? They dug into her background and couldn't find a thing. No records. Nothing. "Stay away from her, Sof. Something's off." So when did that change? When did their suspicion turn into her being the sun? Was it when they hacked my college applications and switched my top choice — so Yolanda could take my spot in the design program? Was it when they threatened to walk out of Moretti and Co. en masse unless I made her a full partner? Or was it Paris? When they staged a crash to give her a solo photo op and left me bleeding to the French police? I don't know anymore. I take a breath. Steady my voice. "Fine. Let's say the bracelet really was a gift from you four." "You were already at the station, Adrian. Why didn't you tell the cops the truth? That the driver wasn't me — it was Yolanda?" His answer comes without a second's hesitation. "French law. Unlicensed hit-and-run is six years, minimum. Landa just graduated. A conviction would destroy her." Everything inside me goes ice-cold. I thought he didn't know the law. I thought this was some misguided tough-love stunt. He knew. He knew everything. "And me?" I rasp. "Did it ever cross your mind what happens to *me*?" Luca laughs. Actually laughs. "Relax, drama queen. You weren't driving. You'll be fine." "And if not — hey, you're already slow. A couple years in a French cell isn't gonna change much." I swallow the burn in my throat and try Adrian one more time. "Do you feel the same way?" He doesn't answer. Just sighs. "Enough, Sof. You're fine, aren't you? Gala's tonight. We're taking Landa dress shopping. We don't have time for a tantrum." I open my mouth to remind him it's my graduation gala too. He hangs up. Ethan is watching me with something too close to pity. "Ms. Moretti. Want me to book you a flight home?" New York's over three thousand miles away. Even the fastest flight is eight hours. By the time I land, the ceremony will be long over. I sniff hard. Wipe my face. "No. Draft me a lawsuit instead."