Overall, the plan isn't airtight and admittedly has flaws, but it's the only one simple enough to pull off by myself. Every version where I leave the family, leave New York, leave this all behind—is too complicated and too time-consuming for me to execute as quickly as I need to. That would require money, transport, protection, and supporting diversions. None of which I'll receive anytime soon from the family. However, the plan to lose my virginity and no longer be eligible to become one of the Costello's brood mares? Easy. So, if I have to stay, I'll take myself out of the virgin pool.
Half of Elena's closet is party, gala, and club clothing. Every time she's ordered to sit in on an underground poker game or throw the gambling odds at an event, she's allowed to keep the clothing provided to her. Before now, I always saw them as her costumes or uniforms, never imagining I would sneak into her room to steal one for my own gain, donning it as my own persona for the night.
Being a Messina, Elena is a much more active member of the Council and Commission than I've ever been—she's also Nonno's favorite grandchild. It's easy for her to get what she wants, when she wants it, if only because her god-awful father is on better terms with Nonno than my father was. Papà and Nonno never saw eye to eye. If anything, Nonno was relieved to hear of Papà's passing. He was quick to excitedly lecture Mamma, saying she wouldn't have to worry about a dead husband if she'd gone through with the first wedding he arranged for her twenty-some odd years ago to Don fucking Vito.
Pre-Donna Rina Rosso, Rina and I only passively participated in the mafia family business. Following orders from Papà as orders were given to him, but not actively participating. After his death and after my sister became the Donna, she and I were forced to take on new responsibilities.
New orders.
New titles.
Once the ink dried on Rina and Vito's marriage, I became the mafia princess—the only sister to the family's queen. As much as my sister is respected as the Donna, she doesn't have as much power as her title suggests. The Commission, and thus the Rosso Council by proxy, operate off the patriarchy. This isn't just a family matter to Vito—it's his business, his way of living, and I have no doubt he'll prioritize his life over mine if it comes to bringing an end to the ongoing turf war—no matter how much my sister begs him for a different outcome. My skin crawls knowing my sister is nearing her second wedding anniversary with the man meant to marry our mother.
Lost in my thoughts almost as deep as I am in Elena's closet, a silver backless mini dress catches my attention. Yeah, that'll work. Smirking, I pull the dress off its hanger and go searching for some matching heels. It's a blessing Elena and I have always been so close in size. Done shopping in Elena's closet, I quicklyshove everything in my bag and lock her apartment door behind me to book it back to the Greenhouse. I'll have to wait until Mamma is asleep to sneak out. I've already argued with her once today. I don't want to have another—not one she'd be required to report up the chain of command anyway. Much like Rina, the less Mamma knows, the better.
The extra time waiting for her to go to bed, however, gives me time to fine-tune my plan.
Once Mamma's asleep and I'm dressed, I'll flip the breaker, cut power to the cameras, and sneak out the front before the generator kicks on. Walk a few blocks away from the house and hail a taxi, pay the cabbie with cash to remain untraceable. Get to Beehive, get a drink, and get to flirting.
Flirting is easy enough. I've watched Elena do it plenty of times, and I've been approached by enough guys to know I have plenty of traits to grab their attention at a nightclub.
Everything else about this plan though gives me pause. Aside from making out—when there are literally no stakes—I have no idea what I'm doing. It's not that I'm scared or that I don't want to lose my virginity. I've just never had a serious enough relationship to consider getting naked. Now, the stakes are high and very possibly might determine my future. Making out with a stranger won't get me out of this problem, but Kieran won't take me as his virgin bride if I'm not a virgin.
Will it hurt? How will I know I'm doing it right...is there even a right way to do it? I wish for a moment I were more like my cousin, if only because she knows what she's doing. Swallowing hard, I push down any remaining questions before slipping down the hall to make sure Mamma's door is shut.
Not bothering with too much makeup, I freshen up my eyeliner and apply some red lipstick to make the whole look pop. Changing into Elena's dress is easy, it's not much more fabric than the average slip. Shimmying out of my bikini cutunderwear, I slip on a lacy thong. My hope with the dress and thong is easy access—limiting the amount of clothing to take off while also efficiently achieving my goal. With a grimace, I turn to the three-inch heels peeking out of my bag. My plan accounts for outfit and transport, but I did not take into consideration walking several blocks in stilettos. My feet are going to kill me tomorrow, but sore feet feels like a small price to pay if it keeps me from being sold to the Costellos.
"Get to Beehive, get a drink, get to flirting," I mumble, repeating the plan to myself as I tiptoe down the stairs to the basement to flip the breaker. The hum of electricity stops the moment the power goes out. I race upstairs to slip through the front door and scurry out of camera view before the generator kicks on and anyone in Vito's circle is notified of the power blip. Catching my breath at the street corner, I take a moment to ground myself before moving into the second part of my plan.
Beehive is an underground nightclub—I only know about it because Elena raves about it all the time when it's just the two of us. She's tried convincing me to come out with her in the past; the realization I could have lost my virginity a lot sooner had I come with her has me kicking myself. Due to the club's existence being on the down low, the cab drops me a block away. I don't know the exact location, but I know the vague direction it's in.
"Once you hit Broadway," Elena's voice echoes in the back of my mind, "there will be little bees hidden in the architecture. You'll see the first one carved in the back of a stoplight. Follow the bees and you'll reach an alley—you know you've reached the right alley because there will be a beehive rather than a bee. Halfway down the alley will be the entrance, slip inside and the bouncer will mark your hand and let you in."
Somewhere around the third or fourth bee carving, the realization that I could be finding a hook up on Tinder or some other dating app falls over me. Instead of using my brain,I overcomplicated shit. My doltish plan is going to freeze my tits off and turn my feet into blisters. By the time a faded beehive mocks me from the alleyway, my toes are numb and I'm debating if my plan is even worth it anymore. Too stubborn to turn back, I take a deep breath and continue down the alley, finding the door and slipping inside.
Warmth spreads through me the moment the door shuts behind me. It's even darker inside than it was in the light-less alley, and it takes a few blinks for my eyes to adjust. Muffled music echoes from somewhere further in the building, the bass making the floor vibrate beneath me. A small light flashes and starts in my direction. Must be the bouncer.
"Hand." His voice is gravelly, demanding. Swallowing hard, I follow instructions and hold my hand out to him. He flickers the light to my face, temporarily blinding me. "Age."
"Old enough," I respond out of habit; the answer I've been instructed to give by the capos whenever a stranger at work questions me.
He flips my hand over and stamps the inside of my wrist. "Down the stairs, third door on the left." He flashes the light in the direction he wants me to go. Ready for the interaction to be over, I shimmy past him and down the stairs with no hesitation. The bass reverberates through my core, the music grows louder the longer I follow the stairs. With each step bringing me closer to my goal—closer to freedom—a newfound confidence sends a thrill down my spine.
"It doesn't matter what you do, Sofia Gallo. You will never be free." Papà's voice screams in the back of my mind, fighting to be louder than the music at Beehive. For a moment, his fingers are wrapped around my throat, the malt liquor on his breath gagging me further while he slams me against the wall. "You will follow orders." Reminding myself Papà is dead, and it's themusic pounding against my skull instead of the drywall, I force myself to return to the present.
One deep breath, and my goal is clear.
One more step, and my head is held high.
One more breath, and my shoulders are straight.
I am not the lost girl living in the east side of Manhattan having to meet demands of every other person; I'm strong, independent, and I will set myself free.
Weed and cigarette smoke waft through the hall as I strut to the third door on the left. The club is hot, humid—making me glad that I opted for a thin, barely-there dress. Bodies move rhythmically on the dance floor, crashing together along with the rise and fall of the blaring music when I turn the corner.
Colored strobe lights are mounted on top of the DJ's speakers at the front of the octagonal stage. Playing homage to the club's name, honeycomb shaped soundproofing panels are mounted around the room, undoubtedly helping the noise stay below ground. Sweat and body spray mix in the stale air, making my mouth dry. With a proud, satisfied smirk I follow the curve of the dance floor to the bar.
"What can I get you?" A female bartender shouts; I can't hear much of what she says, but I can make out the words as she mouths them.
