Page 2 of Wicked Prince

Now that it's actually mine, it feels more like a heavy weight than a precious heirloom. The weight of the knowledge I only gained by reading between the lines of the stories Mom used to tell me while she was braiding my hair at night.

Now I know the truth about this ring. It's just a shiny, expensive trinket men like my father give to pacify the people in their lives they don't deem worthy of far more valuable commodities, like time or love. Sometimes I think about what he must have been thinking when he gave it to her.

Was it a consolation prize for the fact that she gave birth to me alone in a second-rate hospital room while he was with his wife and newborn daughter in the lavish mansion I had always pictured as some far-off fairytale castle?

Or maybe it was meant as a mark. A way to stake his claim without any real commitment. Just enough of a visual symbol that she belonged to him, even if she'd never hold his heart the way he held hers until her very last breath.

I still don't know the answer, but whatever my father intended this ring to be and whatever my mother saw it as, it's become perfectly clear to me what it actually is in reality. It's a scarlet letter, and that red jewel brands me as obviously as it did her.

I look up as Francis makes a turn down a quiet street. It's been a long time since I visited Dad, even though I only stayed in one of the houses a few streets down from the family mansion. It was owned by an aunt I only remember as the one who smelled like cigarette smoke and baked a lot of bread.

Still, my sense of direction is telling me this isn't the right way. The area can't have changedthatmuch in five years.

"Isn't the house that way?" I ask, pointing toward the road we just passed.

"We aren't going to the house," is Francis' unsatisfactory answer.

When I realize he doesn't plan to follow it up with any further detail, I ask, "Then wherearewe going?"

"The Crowne Plaza," he answers, as if it should be obvious.

And I guess it should. I feel like an idiot all over again as yet another revelation dawns on me. Dad was never going to have me come stay with his real family. Just like when I was fourteen, he didn't want me tainting the hallowed sanctuary of his home with my inconvenient existence.

But hey, at least I don't have to worry about meeting my stepmother and stepsister, I guess. Silver linings.

Before long, the Crowne Plaza comes into view, and I have to admit, it's beautiful. The four-story flatiron building sits at the corner of two busy streets on the outer edges of a swanky downtown area that's been commandeered by hipsters and wealthy young professionals. The marquee sign is probably original to whenever the hotel was built, and when the car pulls up at the curb, there's a doorman standing in front of a set of glass doors with gilded frames.

Francis gets out and comes around for my door before hauling my luggage over to the front of the hotel. He passes it to the doorman, who greets him by name as Mr. Mancini, so I know I'm not the only dirty little secret Dad has asked him to hand deliver to this place.

"Ms. Donovan," the doorman says, nodding to me as he helps Francis load my things onto a luggage cart.

I guess he really does know the family. I shouldn't be surprised. The Carillos own half of Brooklyn, and the other half belongs to the Rossis. I know that only because the few times Dad did visit us when I was younger, he'd spend half the time drunk, and Luca Rossi's name was always a slurred curse on his lips.

Without a word, Francis walks back to the car and gets in, so I guess his duty is done. I thank the doorman, who transfers me to a bellhop.

"I don't need to check in?" I ask as the young guy leads me past the front desk.

He glances over his shoulder and shakes his head. "No, Ms. Donovan. It's all been taken care of."

Of course it has.

My room ends up being on the top floor, and when the bellhop opens the door, I realize it's every bit as lavish as the rest of the hotel suggests. The room itself is huge, with a massive four-post bed in the center and a sprawling bathroom suite that has two sinks and separate areas for the vanity and shower. It makes home look like a plain shoebox in comparison, but for all the warmth of its furniture and decor, it feels cold and empty.

"Thank you," I say, turning to the guy who's already halfway out of the room.

He freezes and looks at me like I'm a ghost. I know I look a little rough from the flight, but notthatrough, so it's got to be the whole mob boss' daughter thing. If he's been in this world long enough, he knows exactly what the consequences of touching or even looking wrong at the right person are. He nods shakily and mumbles something that sounds like, "Goodnight," before he disappears.

I close the door and turn the lock before deciding to unpack my things. Halfway through, I get a call from Dad. It takes a minute for me to decide if I should answer or not. At length, I pick up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey, kiddo," he says in a warm tone that feels like a joke. "Just checking to see if you got in okay."

I clench my jaw, telling myself there's no point in making a smartass remark, but old habits die hard. "Yeah. Francis is a very diligent proxy."

He lets out a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to come meet you. I had things to take care of."

"It's fine. I guess I won't be coming to the house, then?"

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