Psychotic Bitch
𝑅𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝒢𝒶𝓂𝒷𝒾𝓃𝑜
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Words cut sharper than steel,
But steel speaks where words would fail.
They've called me a lot of things.
"Psychotic."
"Ice-cold bitch."
"Attention whore."
"No man will ever put up with you."
Charming, right?
Here's the thing—they're not wrong. I don't need a man. I never have. And their weak little labels? That's just proof my power rattles them. I make people uncomfortable because I don't shrink. I don't chase validation. I walk into a room like I own it—because I do.
The truth about men and their fragile egos?
They break the moment a woman doesn't need them.
Men build their identities around being needed, admired, obeyed. So when a woman like me walks in—sharp tongue, sharper blade—they crack. A powerful woman exposes their mediocrity, and oh, how they hate the mirror I hold up to them.
I was born to be that woman.
The daughter of the American-Italian Mafia's Don.
Trained to lead. Trained to kill. Trained to never cry.
I don't remember soft lullabies or gentle kisses goodnight. I remember blood on my hands and lessons in power whispered through gritted teeth. My father raised me to be steel—unforgiving, untouchable, unstoppable.
Which brings us to tonight.
I'm standing in his office, dressed in all black, boots planted firmly on the polished floor. In front of me, four grown men from the Russian mafia—on their knees, trembling like newborn deer. They're shaking, mumbling prayers like someone's listening.
No one is. Not here.
God doesn't live in mafia territory.
This wasn't supposed to be how I spent my evening. But Daddy dearest had "business" to deal with, so I got stuck babysitting the Russian B-listers they sent over. Spies, really. Rats dressed in leather jackets. They were supposed to "observe" us and report back to their new boss like we wouldn't notice.
Spoiler alert: We noticed.
And now they're on their knees, seconds from death, staring up at the girl they thought they could outwit.
Pathetic.
The new Russian don has made a lot of mistakes—but this might just be his biggest one yet. Ever since Ivan Kozlov died, the Kozlov family's been desperate to prove they still matter. They thought sending these four buffoons would be intimidating.
All they did was make me laugh.
I trail my fingers across my father's mahogany desk, the sharp clack of my heels echoing with every step I take. They flinch like the sound itself might be their death sentence. Good. Fear looks good on them.
People say my eyes look like I've killed before.
They're right. I have. Plenty.
And every time I see a man beg, I feel more alive.
"Tell me," I purr, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Do you want a quick death... or would you prefer I take my time and enjoy it?"
One of them whimpers. Another starts sobbing. My smile widens.
Before I can choose which one to start with, the door slams open.
My father enters, dark suit rumpled, fury practically radiating from his pores. He looks like a storm wearing human skin.
"Principessa," he growls, not sparing me a glance. "Kill them. All of them. Fast."
I pout. "No fun?"
"Now."
Fine.
Four quick shots.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Their bodies drop like flies. Easy. Clean. Too clean.
Until one of them twitches.
I sigh, annoyed. Really? He wants to make this dramatic?
I shoot him again—once in the chest, once in the neck. Just to be sure. His blood pools under his body, and finally, the silence returns.
I tuck my gun into the waistband of my low-rise jeans and turn to my father, who's aggressively typing away like he didn't just order an execution.
"What the hell happened?" I ask, leaning on the desk, eyes narrowing. He doesn't answer.
Something's off. He's tense—more than usual. My father's always angry, but this? This is something else.
He groans and slams his fist against the desk, rattling the lamp and the unopened scotch. I blink, surprised. He never loses composure like this. Not even when the Russians sent us a severed hand as a "warning" last year.
"What's going on?" I ask again, sharper now.
Still, he hesitates.
Then he looks at me with an expression I've never seen on his face before.
Guilt.
It couldn't be that bad. Nothing or anybody has ever been able to take down the American-Italian Mafia. Well, since I've been alive.
And now that I am alive, no one will ever be able to take this mafia down unless they are standing over my dead body.
"Sit," he says finally, gesturing to the chair across from him. "It's time I told you the truth about the Russians."
I freeze. That sentence alone feels like a gun pressed to my back.
But I sit.
I've always known the Kozlovs were our enemies. That was a lesson drilled into me since I was old enough to understand words. Don't trust them. Don't talk to them. Don't look at them. Don't breathe near them.
But no one ever told me why.
He clears his throat. "When you were still in training, years ago, the Russian don—Ivan—was my friend. Or at least, I thought he was."
My brow furrows. What?
"We played poker. We drank. We laughed." His face hardens. "And then one day, twenty million dollars disappeared from this very office."
I blink. That's a lot of money... but it wouldn't even scratch the surface of our empire. So why does this feel personal?
"I went to him," my father continues. "He denied it. Lied to my face. But I knew it was him."
He pauses. His hands tremble slightly. That never happens.
"And then, at a formal mafia event, his brother started running his mouth—mocking me about the missing money."
"What did you do?" I ask, even though I already know.
He shrugs. "Shot him."
Of course he did.
"From that moment on, we were enemies. No trust. No peace."
I nod slowly, trying to connect the dots. "Okay. But that was years ago. So why are you losing your mind now?"
He leans in. The shadows under his eyes look deeper now. Older.
"Because the new don... he made a deal."
My stomach tightens.
"What kind of deal?"
He doesn't look at me when he says it. "He wants to marry you."
I blink. "He what?"
My eyebrows raise as I take a full understanding of what is going on.
"If you marry him, he promises peace. Power. Legacy. If you don't... he'll burn everything we've built to the ground."
I laugh. I can't help it.
"What the actual fuck are you saying right now?"
"I'm saying," he says quietly, "that if you want my throne one day... you'll marry the Russian don."
My blood runs cold.
What the fuck is he talking about? He thinks I'm going to marry a fucking boss?
"You told me never to trust one. Never to speak to one. And now you want me to marry one?!"
"I know," he says. "I'm sorry."
"No. No, you don't get to say sorry." I stand, rage crackling in my chest like wildfire. "You raised me to be a weapon. And now you want me to lay down like a lamb and be some mobster's wife?"
I say shaking my head in disbelief trying to make sense of what is happening. I feel like I'm in a really bad dream right now that I can't wake up from.
"It's not like that—"
"It's exactly like that!" I shout. "You want me to be the pretty little prize at the end of his power play."
I want to be my own person. Not the arm candy of a fucking pathetic boss. Especially the Russian Mafia.
Silence falls between us. It's heavy. Dense.
Then, finally, I speak.
"He wants to marry me?" I repeat, voice icy. "Fine. But he has no idea what he's getting into."
Because I'm not some dainty little thing to parade around in diamonds and chains.
I'm a loaded gun.
And if he dares to put a ring on me—
He better pray I don't pull the trigger.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
I sit perfectly still as some poor makeup artist dabs, brushes, and paints my face like I'm some lifeless mannequin in a display case. Her hands tremble slightly—probably because of the resting murder-face I've got on.
I don't want to be here. I don't want to go. And I sure as hell haven't spoken to my father since that day in his office.
The day he handed me over like a pawn on a bloodstained chessboard.
I stormed out before he could say another word. I knew he was hiding something—something the Russians had on him. But he wouldn't admit it. Instead, he threw me at their new don like I was a wedding favor.
My eye burns as the woman swipes a little too close with the brush.
"Hey. Watch what the fuck you're doing," I snap, my tone sharp enough to slice skin.
She flinches and nods quickly, murmuring a string of apologies while resuming her work. I sigh and stare straight ahead, jaw tight.
The door creaks open.
"Principessa," my father's voice echoes through the room, calm and casual. "We're leaving in forty-five minutes."
I don't look at him. I don't answer.
He takes a few steps in, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction. He won't get one.
"I know you're angry," he begins, voice soft like it's supposed to make a difference. "But you need to understand—"
"No." I cut him off coldly. "I don't need to understand shit. What do they have on you? What the hell are you hiding?"
He stiffens. I feel it.
"It's complicated," he says eventually. "Just trust me."
Trust. That's a joke.
"Yeah, whatever," I mutter, waving him off. "Get out."
He lingers for a second—silent, disappointed—before turning and walking away without another word. Head down. Good.
"You look beautiful, princess," the makeup artist whispers as she finishes up and hurries out of the room.
I give her a slight smile. Not enough to show weakness. Just enough to make her leave faster.
The moment she's gone, the smile vanishes.
I look in the mirror. My face is flawless—too flawless. I look like a porcelain doll. Perfect. Fake. Breakable.
I hate it.
I grab the blood-red silk gown hanging from the clothing rack. It's long, tight, and sinful. The kind of dress that demands attention. It fits like a glove. I pair it with matching red-bottom Louboutins—because if I'm going to hell tonight, I might as well do it in heels.
I walk downstairs slowly. Deliberately.
My father and the bodyguards are already waiting by the door. I don't spare them a glance as I pass. I open the car door myself and slide in. My father follows after.
The ride is quiet—thick with things unsaid.
He tells me I look beautiful again. I don't respond.
He's trying. But you don't get to break your daughter's soul and then throw a compliment on top like whipped cream. Not when you've just signed her up to marry the enemy.
I've always told him I didn't believe in love, didn't want marriage, didn't want a man tying me down.
Especially not a Russian one.
When we finally pull up to the ballroom, it's a glowing cathedral of excess—gold pillars, crystal chandeliers, people who bleed money and sleep with lies.
I open the door before the chauffeur can even blink. One of the guards tries to stop me, wide-eyed, and I just shoot him a mocking smirk.
I walk up the steps like I own the place.
Inside, it's exactly what I expected—champagne, cigar smoke, fake laughter, men with overinflated egos and their wives clinging to them like shadows. The kind of event where power is paraded around in a tux.
I walk straight to the bar, ignoring the stares like they're beneath me—which they are.
All the women in the room stand behind their husbands, perfectly still, perfectly pretty. Silent. Obedient.
Sad.
I lean over the bar and tap the counter. "Old Fashioned. Extra bitter," I say, sliding a crisp hundred across the wood.
The bartender nods quickly and gets to work.
Someone steps beside me. Tall. Male. Too close.
"Old Fashioned, huh?" the voice drawls.
I glance over. Blond hair, baby blue eyes, face like a Nordic god—but the smirk ruins it.
"Let me guess," he says. "You're here with someone?"
I turn away and sip my drink, unbothered. He doesn't take the hint.
"No ring. No arm to hold. A woman like you... dangerous," he murmurs.
I finally look at him. Deadpan.
"Nope. Much worse. Now walk away before I put a bullet through your skull."
His smirk falters. "Feisty," he says, laughing nervously. "I like that."
I jab my index finger against his chest, pushing him back a step. "You won't like it when you're dead in a suit bag for breathing near me."
He laughs again like it's cute. Like this is a game.
"It'd be a shame," he murmurs, "if I never got to have sex with you."
I stare at him. Blink once.
Then I smirk. "You probably have saggy-ass balls from all the STDs you've collected like Pokémon cards."
His smile drops. "Wow."
I sip my drink slowly, savoring the taste. "You're boring."
He steps closer again, still not getting it. I let out a low breath, the kind that comes right before something explodes.
"I said, walk away," I snap, right before kneeing him—hard—straight where it hurts.
He lets out a high-pitched scream, buckling forward like a folding chair.
"You psychotic bitch!" he whines, clutching himself like a toddler.
I smile sweetly. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
And then I turn on my heel, heels clicking like gunshots across the floor, every pair of eyes burning holes into my back.
Let them watch.
I was never meant to be silent. Or obedient.
I was meant to be feared.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･