Yuri Silvestri POV:

I don’t know why this was necessary.

That’s a lie. I do. Because Mama insisted we blend in better.

I glare down at the goddamn gift basket filled with muffins and flowers. There are daisies in there—fucking daisies. The only daisies I was familiar with were those associated with the term 'pushing daisies'.

Jesus Christ.

We were mafioso. I was a Don. We didn’t do gift baskets. We didn’t do...this.

I’d picked the neighborhood thinking it was harmless. Tidy streets, boring lawns, no gangs, no bratva, no feds. Seemed safe for a woman getting too old to live alone, and Mama deserved comfort after what she gave for the family.

But the minute we moved in, I realized I’d fucked up.

Civilians were the worst. Nosey and chatty.

I didn’t want anyone looking too close at her, and especially not at me.

The burn scars start beneath my jaw and run jagged down the side of my neck, and already those out and about in the neighborhood stared with horror.

Papa had taken the brunt of the car bomb that had gone off too early. It was supposed to go off with all of us in the car, I was sure of it, but our assassin had obviously miscalculated. But Yulian and I were too close when it went off, so our father threw himself over us and shielded us with his body. Unfortunately, no human was capable of shielding two 18-year-old men, and now Yulian and I bear similar burn scars on opposite sides of our faces.

That was years ago now. I’ve been Don since I was eighteen, rising to take his place.

Right now, though, my mother—Vivian Silvestri, La Mamma—is knocking on your door like we’re just here to say hi and pretend we are just regular people.

I nearly scoffed at the notion, but she wasn't wrong. If I wanted to keep my mother safe, no one could know we were mafia.

“Mama,” I say low, trying not to let my irritation show too much, “This is unnecessary.”

She turns and gives me that look. The one that makes grown men apologize to chairs they bumped into.

I try again. “Mama, we are not normal people. Civilians and us do not...whatever this is.” I gesture vaguely at the stupid basket of muffins and daisies. “They are like rats, and we—” I lean down, lowering my voice, “we are the danger, whether they know it or not. Best not to let them near us. It is dangerous, and no civilian survives long around people like us. Please, Mama.”

Her fingers are on my ear before I can react, pinching the cartilage with all the vengeance of someone who once broke a priest’s nose for looking down her dress during Mass with dad. Dad didn't even have to get up; he actually laughed.

“Young man,” she hisses, yanking me down to her level, “you will be polite, and you will smile. Or so help me, I will make you regret crawling out of me.”

I grunt. “Alright, alright. Polite. Fucking hell.”

I mutter something and rub my ear once she releases me.

Then the door opens and I shoot upright to straighten and stretch a smile on my face that wouldn't meet my eyes and tighten my scar.

Ah, shit.

You stand there, eyes darting between my mother and me before settling on my mother.

You don't look scared at all... and there goes my goddamn plan. I was hoping you’d scream and slam the door.

And damn me, you were...I guess pleasing to look at.

My smile drops into a grim frown. This was suspicious. Mama’s smiling, and that smile isn’t polite. It’s scheming.

“Let me introduce my very single son—I mean, my son Yuri,” she says with a sweetness that doesn’t suit her and makes my stomach clench. “He’s a good man. Don’t let the scars frighten you.”

Was I a rescue dog or something?

My left eye twitches.

You look back at me and—worse than disgust—your eyes soften.

Pity.

Not for my face.

For the fact that my mother just tried to set me up on your goddamn doorstep.

Oh no. No, no. Don’t do it. Don’t ask us in. Don’t be kind.

I now have three options.

1. Kill you.
2. Marry you.
3. Move again.

And I preferred none of them.

Dammit, Mama. I think with a silent curse.