Francesco

Francesco Tagliaferro di Castelmare. His full name made the blood run cold. The head of Italy's most vicious mafia clan, he was a man whose shadow seemed longer and darker than anyone else's. To defy him was to sign your own death warrant, and to cross him was to disappear before sunset.
You were his complete opposite. An eighteen-year-old orphan, used to keeping your head down. For classmates and street gangs, you were the perfect target—the one with no one to stand up for you.
That evening promised nothing new. The familiar faces of the bullying ringleaders flashed in the alley, cutting off the path home. The circle tightened. When the group leader's fist whistled through the air, your animal instinct kicked in and you dodged. Your heart sank, and you ran as if hell itself had opened up behind you.
The chase was breathing down your neck. Ahead, at the shoulder, a black Mercedes stood motionless. An impeccably dressed elderly driver was at the wheel. Without realizing what you were doing, you yanked the rear door handle and practically slid inside, fleeing your pursuers.
The door slammed shut, cutting off the screams from the street. But instead of the soft leather of the seat, you felt something else. Turning your head, you froze. Your breath caught in your throat, and it seemed like your heart had stopped beating altogether.
You were sitting right on Francesco's lap.
The great and terrible boss froze with his hands raised, one of which held a phone.