Page 35 of A Deviant Queen

“Woman,” he corrects. “I have trained you well, but you know how our world works.”

He doesn’t have to explain his meaning. Sometimes I wonder if the reason he doesn’t say fuck the rules and let me lead is to protect me. Despite the obstacles I’ve already overcome, a woman at the head of a mafia is unheard of. Not that he doesn’t think I’m capable of handling it, but I would quickly find myself at war with anyone who questioned my ability to lead.

“Anything else you would like for me to know?” Dad asks.

“Brenner texted my dupe this morning. I have a date Saturday with Collins.”

He nods his approval. “Things seem to be moving along perfectly. Well done, as always, baby girl.”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

“Your mother was looking for you.”

He chuckles when I scoff in protest.

“Behave, my beautiful girl.”

“Only if you do.”

A mischievous grin slides onto my father’s face, and it's a grin that silently tells me not a fucking chance and pleads with me to finally end that miserable cow’s life while I’m at it.

Maybe that last message was my wicked mind misconstruing his intentions, but I like how my brain processed it.

After kissing my dad on the cheek, I make my way to the opposite side of the mansion. My parents keep their distance from each other; I don’t even remember when the two shared a bedroom. The distaste for one another and their marriage is palpable.

It doesn’t take long to hear the high-pitched griping coming from my mother’s office. From the sound of it, she’s ripping off someone’s head through her phone. Most likely for some bullshit reason, like some poor soul put one too many ice cubes in her iced coffee.

Tawny Olin is the epitome of a Karen, but with the power to make people disappear with the snap of a finger.

My mother catches sight of me as I enter her office and tosses her nose in the air, my presence further souring her already sour mood. I yawn, making a show of how boring I find her dramatics.

As she continues to take her anger out on the person on the phone, I take in her appearance. I didn’t inherit a single gene from this woman. Well, maybe masochism, but I’m confident that comes from both sides.

Tawny stands a few inches shorter than me, five-three to my five-six, with blonde hair I’ve always been convinced comes from a bottle. I wondered once what her natural hair color is, but it was a short-lived curiosity. God forbid I’d discovered it was black like mine, Donnie’s, and our dad’s. I found comfort in not sharing similarities with my tormentor.

Her skin is paler than mine, and she has light-blue eyes, which she gave to my brother. When Donnie and I were little, just as I started to understand my mother’s aggression toward me, I tried to pluck out his eyes to give him my teddy bear’s instead. I hated that he shared something like that with her. Thankfully, Dad was there to stop me.

My brother has dealt with my anger ever since, twenty years of taking the brunt of my rage. Back then, it was pure innocence and misunderstanding. Now I’ve got a few screws loose and one hell of a temper.

The witch was born and groomed to be the perfect mafia princess. My grandfather had some fucked-up arrangement with the Russian mafia. And my poor dad was the lucky bastard to win this trophy of a woman. Or, from what I understand, my poor old man had to give up the prize for a pig.

Today my mother wears white pumps with a tight, long-sleeved dress. Always putting on a show of having it together, and never a hair out of place or a nail not manicured.

Okay, so perhaps I did inherit something from her. I’m always put together—hair, makeup, and clothes. Donovan says I’m bougie. I snort, then shudder, realizing I possess some of this wretched woman’s qualities after all.

Vile.

Tawny gives me a dirty look, quickly ending the call and slamming her phone on the table beside her before giving me her full attention. I cock my head to the side, a threat for her to try me.

“You wanted to see me?” I straighten my head, satisfied when she looks away from my glare in defeat.

“You’ll never find a husband with that attitude, my love.” God, she’s really putting on a show. I swallow a gag at her fake endearment.

“Pity,” I quip, failing to keep my annoyance from my voice. “What can I help you with, Mother?”

Tawny scoffs; I never call her Mother.

“We are having a ball soon with the Italians and the Irish.”

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