The Principessa They Called a Whore

The entrance to the apartment building was completely blocked. I shoved my way to the front just as Troy Valachi, son of a local Gallo family Capo, pointed me out and let out a vulgar whistle.

"Check her out. The art department's charity case. A total gold digger. They say she'll spread her legs for any rich old geezer."

Inside my apartment, my paintings had been slashed to ribbons. On the walls, scrawled in lurid red lipstick, were the words "SLUT" and "GET OUT OF CHICAGO."

Tiffany Monroe, the most popular girl on campus, held up her phone for her audience.

"Girls, I really didn't want to expose her, but she's just too foul," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "Worse than some back-alley whore. On Monday, she was with that man in the Bentley at some five-star restaurant."

"Wednesday, she was clinging to a middle-aged guy at the opera, the kind who stinks of cigars and looks like he wants to devour you. And yesterday? It was that gentleman in the Rolls-Royce with the gold-rimmed glasses, the one who looked so refined but had the eyes of a shark."

She shoved the photos in the faces of the girls huddled around her.

"Obviously, she's not here for a degree. She's here to collect sugar daddies."

Though the photos clearly showed me in those places, I couldn't reveal that the men with me were my overprotective brother, my volatile uncle, and my formidable granduncle.

They were the Don of the Scardoni family, its most ruthless Consigliere, and a patriarch who commanded a shadowy empire of wealth.

The men around me erupted in jeers, their leering eyes raking over my body.

"Hey, out-of-towner, what's your price for a night? I want a taste, too."

They had no idea that the men they imagined as my sugar daddies were, in fact, the last people on earth they could ever afford to cross.

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1

The entrance to the apartment building was a solid wall of bodies.

Troy Valachi, son of a Capo in Chicago's Gallo family, and his cronies blocked my path, whistling and jeering.

"See her? The art department's scholarship case."

"She's a gold digger who only goes for old men. I heard she’ll do anything for the right price."

I kept my head down, trying to push my way through the wall of bodies.

As the only art history scholarship student here, my very presence felt like a provocation.

"Hey, out-of-towner!"

Troy deliberately slammed his shoulder into mine. He leaned closer, taking a loud, exaggerated sniff of my hair.

"Pfft. That perfume… cheap, but it gets the job done, right? Perfect for your line of work."

A wave of crude laughter erupted.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging so hard into my palms I thought I might draw blood.

My brother, Luciano Scardoni, had warned me not to reveal my identity. So, I had to endure it.

I shoved Troy aside and bolted into the apartment building.

Behind me, Tiffany Monroe's shrill, mocking laughter followed me up the stairs.

"What's the hurry? Stay away from Troy, you bitch! Or next time, it'll be your face I ruin!"

I gritted my teeth and fled up the stairs to the third floor.

But when I reached my apartment door, my heart plummeted. The lock had been pried open, the metal around the cylinder gouged and twisted.

I pushed the door open, and the acrid stench of paint and chemicals assaulted my senses.

My treasured paintings, the work I had poured my soul into for my graduation exhibition, were slashed to ribbons. Expensive pigments were splattered across the canvases and floor in a chaotic, ugly mess. The wardrobe gaped open, my clothes cut to shreds.

The walls were a canvas of hate, smeared with bright red lipstick: "SLUT," "WHORE," "GET OUT OF CHICAGO." Obscene cartoons were scrawled beside them.

A slow clap echoed from the doorway.

Tiffany leaned against the doorframe, her phone's camera aimed at the devastation.

"Everyone, get a load of the out-of-town bitch's shithole," she gloated into her screen. "See? She loves sleeping in garbage. It's where she belongs."

"Get out!" I lunged to slam the door.

But Tiffany just sneered, wedging her foot in the jamb.

"Oh, save the act," she said with a cold laugh, shoving her phone in my face. "Ophelia Scardoni, I'm warning you—stay away from Troy. You think a low-class piece of trash who screws her way into nice things is good enough for him? Don't sleep too soundly tonight."

Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Because my man doesn't like it when other people touch his things."

With that, she spun on her heel and strutted away, her followers trailing in her wake.

I slid to the floor, defeated.

My phone buzzed. A message from Luciano.

"Your location is showing the South Side. That area is a mess, Lia. Get home now, or I'm coming to get you."

Staring at the screen, I felt a bitter laugh rise in my throat. A "cradle for the elite"? More like a pigsty for the scum of the earth.