When My Parents Kill Me, I Became the Mafia Princess

On the ninety-ninth day after my birth parents took me home, they asked me to marry the head of the mafia in my sister's place. "Vera," my mother said, "this engagement was always meant for you. Now that you're back, we wouldn't dream of taking away what's rightfully yours." I laughed. Everyone knew Wolf was a savage. He married three times a year, and not a single one of his wives had ever lived to see Christmas Eve. After I refused, my adopted sister Elaine burst into tears. "I just don't want people saying I stole what belonged to my sister," she sobbed. "I've already enjoyed so many things that were hers. I won't take anything else from her. If she says no, I won't go either." My mother pulled the weeping Elaine into her arms. "Silly girl," she murmured. "You will always be our daughter. That will never change." Then she turned to look at me, her eyes full of reproach. "You're still not as sensible as Elaine. This isn't just about your marriage — it's about our family's honor. But I can't blame you. We found you too late." I had been about to take the whole matter to my adopted parents. Instead, I drank the warm glass of soothing milk they gave me — and blacked out. When I came to, I found myself tied in the back of a filthy cargo truck, wrists and ankles bound. My hands were bound behind my back. The rope had already cut through the first layer of skin. Every time the truck lurched, a fresh wave of pain shot up both arms. The air reeked of motor oil and rotting meat. Twenty years living with my adopted parents — the Sinclairs, a mafia dynasty — had taught me exactly what this was. I'd been kidnapped. And without thinking twice, I was fairly certain it had something to do with the marriage they'd been pushing last night. Half an hour later, the truck stopped. They threw me out into the desert. Scalding sand flooded my nose and mouth. My already raw wrists screamed as the coarse grains ground into the wounds. "Dear sister," came a sweet voice. "Do you like the little trip I arranged just for you? You've been gone for twenty years — why did you have to come back? But since you're here, and since you seem so determined to claim everything that's yours, let's start with Mr. Wolf. He says he'll show you the most exquisite pleasure a woman can know." I forced my head up. Elaine stood over me, dressed in a pink MiuMiu suit, her smile radiant. "There was never any real engagement with Wolf, was there," I said, spitting sand from my mouth. "You just wanted to get rid of me." She tilted her head, crouching down in front of me, still smiling. "Sister, do you have any idea how much Mom and Dad missed you while you were out wandering all those years? Don't you think you owe them something? If you make Mr. Wolf happy, he's promised us three city blocks' worth of business." So that was it. They had traded me like cargo. Wolf's businesses were the filthiest in the city. Even my adopted parents had publicly declared him a disgrace — more than once. "You should let me go right now," I said. "Or you'll pay a price you can't even imagine." Elaine let out a sharp laugh and kicked me in the stomach. "Who do you think you are? You're a vagrant. You have no voice in this family." Then they threw me back into the truck. But at least now I knew exactly what was waiting for me. Wolf — that blood-hungry deviant. He liked to share his women with his men, a way of buying their loyalty, getting them to kill for him. Even strippers refused to endure that kind of degradation. Most of the women were thrown into water dungeons, broken through violence, sometimes controlled with drugs. The best outcome they could hope for was death by their own hand. I thought of the footage Calista — my adopted parents' daughter, my sister — had once shown me. My breath caught. But anger came faster than fear. The rage of being betrayed by the people who called themselves family. Still — Wolf was nothing but a groveling lackey to the Sinclairs. Once I revealed who I was, he wouldn't dare touch me. ———

I had miscalculated one thing. I had been delivered to Wolf under the name Vera Draco — the name I'd taken after being reclaimed by my birth family. In his eyes, I was nothing more than a toy to be used and discarded. Which meant before I ever reached Wolf himself, I had to get through his men first. They would make sure I was broken in, properly "trained," before presenting me to him. The moment they threw me into the water dungeon, I started talking. "I'm Vera Sinclair — the adopted daughter of the Sinclair family. Go verify it. Check my identity—" The lead guard grinned. "Last month some woman said she was the mayor's niece. You're a little more creative, I'll give you that." I strained to raise my hand, desperate to prove myself. "My right ring finger — there's a black-and-gold ring. The inner band is engraved with my name and the date I joined the family. Everyone in the Sinclair organization recognizes that ring—" But my words were swallowed by a wave of mocking laughter. I looked down at my hand. The finger was bare. Only a pale ring of skin where it had rested for years. A flash of memory: them dragging me across the ground. I must have lost it when I pushed myself up, trying not to be scraped raw. "No ring, no proof. That's enough." Before the words were even finished, a baseball bat connected with my left cheekbone. No warning. No windup. "Rule one: you don't speak unless spoken to." My skull rang like a struck bell. The ringing swallowed every other sound. I felt something shift in the wrong direction along my cheekbone, and then the ground came up to meet me. "Rule two," he said, "no fighting back." I swung my foot at his wrist. The baton clattered to the floor. I lunged for it — and he tackled me from behind. My face hit the concrete. My mouth filled with the taste of rust. He flipped me over and drove his fist into my stomach. I couldn't help it. I retched. There was nothing in my stomach — only bile, yellow and bitter, running down my chin. I choked through a few ragged coughs. I could feel my face swelling fast. Then — a flash of light. I squinted toward it. Elaine. She stood in the doorway on her high heels, a perfect porcelain doll, absurdly out of place in this mold-stinking, waterlogged dungeon. She looked down at me the way you'd look at something disgusting on the bottom of your shoe. "Oh my," she said, hand over her nose, voice bright with barely concealed delight, "Sister, if Mr. Wolf sees you looking like this, don't you think he might want a refund?" "But it's fine," she crouched down, meeting my eyes, her gaze traveling over my face and pausing on my swollen cheekbone. Her smile widened. "He doesn't want you for your face anyway. He has so many men, and they all need to be entertained, right? Sister, you should thank me. I've made sure you won't be lonely." "Elaine," I said. "There's still time." "Time for what?" "Time for this to end differently." She laughed — the polite laugh of someone who'd just heard a joke that wasn't very funny. She stood up, looking down at me. "Sister, did all those years on the streets scramble your brain? What exactly makes you think you have any leverage here?" "Oh, and your wedding night is almost here. Mr. Wolf is in a good mood today. He's decided to grace you with his presence early." She turned and walked out on her heels. "Clean this place up. Miss Calista can't stand the smell of blood." At the sound of my sister's name, something cracked open inside me. Calista. She toured the territories every month without fail. She would find me. She had to find me. ———

The next day, I heard her voice. That word rippled down the corridor like rings on water — "Young Mistress, Young Mistress" — announced by the shifting posture of everyone in her wake. That was what everyone inside Black Crown called Calista. Hearing that title from inside this cell was the closest I had ever come to a miracle. I started making noise. I beat my chains against the wall in a steady rhythm — three strikes, pause, three strikes, pause. I called out until my voice was nothing but gravel. Guards were inside within seconds — more than one. "Shut up!" "Calista is right there in that corridor," I said. "Bring her in here to see me. Or go tell her someone is calling her name. Either one—" He slammed me down, knee grinding between my shoulder blades, face shoved into the concrete. I inhaled everything this place had ever witnessed — iron, rot, the chemical ghost of something I couldn't name. "Make another sound," he said in my ear, "and I'll cut out your tongue." "The Young Mistress hates hearing noise from things like you. If she gets angry, you'll get us all killed." He pulled out a stun baton and pressed it against my side. The world inverted. I felt my body convulsing against the cold filthy floor like a dead fish, my vision dissolving into white flares and spinning light. When I could see again, they were shoving something into my mouth — a dirty rag soaked in sweat and motor oil and something chemical I couldn't identify — tied tight behind my head, forcing my mouth wide open. I could still breathe through my nose. But I could smell her. Cedar. The scent she always wore. The scent that had always made me feel safe. I screamed into the rag. What came out was low and animal, a muffled, broken groan that couldn't get through the iron door. I beat my chains against the wall, but my arms were shaking from the electric burns, and the sound barely carried above the voices in the corridor. "This one?" Calista said, just outside. "Mr. Wolf's new bride," came a careful, deferential voice. "She's unstable, though. Violent. So we've had to..." A pause. Calista's voice came back, edged with displeasure. "Wolf..." "Young Mistress, this was a voluntary arrangement between the Draco family and—" The other voice had begun to tremble. Three seconds later, the cedar scent thickened. Calista. She stood in the doorway dressed in a black trench coat, looking colder than I'd ever seen her. My heartbeat lurched. Sister. She walked in, crouched down, stopped less than half a meter away. Her eyes moved over me with a practiced sweep — and then slowed. Went still. She was looking at my face. "What's her name?" "Vera Draco." Something shifted in her brow. Barely a flicker. But I saw it. Vera. Vera and Vera — one letter apart. She had to feel it. She had to— "Young Mistress, this woman is dangerous, please don't get too close—" Calista ignored him. She reached up and cupped my face in both hands. I nearly broke down completely. Her hands were cool. I knew these hands. When I was seven years old, she had taken my hand just like this and walked me through the gates of Sinclair Manor for the very first time. I wanted to speak — Sister, it's me, it's Vera, look at me, really look— But the rag turned everything into a wet, shapeless moan. I couldn't even form syllables. I poured everything I had into my eyes. It's me. It's me. Sister, it's me— Her expression changed. From intent, to uncertain, to something I had never seen on her face before. Revulsion. Not at me — I knew that. At what was in front of her. This unrecognizable woman. This complete stranger. She let go of my face. She stood up. She wiped her hands. "Get it sorted," she told the guard, back to business, "Don't let it end in a death." She left. The sound of the door closing echoed through the dungeon. The lead guard walked in and crouched down in front of me, something pleased moving through his expression. "You just made the Young Mistress frown." He stood, tilted his chin at the men behind him. "Wolf doesn't come until tonight, right? Plenty of time to find a new one." I stared up at the light overhead. White. Blinding. My eyes could barely stay open. Was this really how it ended? ———

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