5 Mafia Brothers Abused Princess

Mirabella

Sitting on the roof of my battered home, I stared up at the countless stars scattered across the night sky. The sharp wind numbed the sting of my fresh bruises, but not the dull ache deep inside me. The same dark thought kept haunting me — what if I simply let myself fall from this three-story house? Would it all finally end? But one small voice always pulled me back from the edge.

“Mimo? That’s really dangerous…”

The voice was soft, almost fragile. I turned to see the tiny figure of my half-brother standing unsteadily by my window.

I quietly slipped off the roof and into my room.

“I’m fine, Puto. Why are you here? You should be in your room..You know what Amanda will do if she See's us together..” I whispered.

He gave a little shrug before answering, “I wanted to make sure you were sleeping.”

He tried to reason out but i know he just came to check on me like I do on him..

"Anyway, they are drunk and passed out.. No one will come to see us.. I just want to spend some time with you Mimo.. "

I hugged him to comfort him but we both heard footsteps that made us part away..

"I'll leave now.. "

I nodded, watching him shuffle back to his room, his little beanie barely visible as he disappeared into the darkness. I sighed and lowered myself onto the worn mattress on the floor.Was life like this? No..It was so much better when mom was alive..I had my own bedroom, my bed, my life..Niw? Everything is gone..If I’m still breathing today, it’s because of him. Puto — his real name is Peter, but I call him that silly nickname. My little brother, born from my mother’s second mistake. He was only three when they diagnosed him with an aggressive form of leukemia. The treatments robbed him of his hair; the beanie gave him back a shred of confidence.

My mother passed away when Puto was still a baby. She was my birth mother, my only real parent. I don’t know how she couldn’t see the monster hiding behind the man she invited into our lives. Maybe she couldn’t, or maybe she just wanted to believe in something better. I was only seven when he first showed up, a stranger who quickly became a permanent shadow in our home.

Mom worked herself to the bone — three shifts a day, seven days a week — just to afford this tiny house and give me a stable roof over my head. But after he arrived, everything shifted. At first, he was all smiles and sweetness, so much that it felt sickening. But when Mom wasn’t around, his true face revealed itself.

What started as cold shoulders became harsh words, then punishments, then violence. He called it "discipline." At first, I thought I deserved it. But soon I realized that wasn’t true. By the time I fully understood, it was too late. Mom trusted him blindly. She often left me alone with him for days. His punishments grew worse — from slaps to belts, then eventually knives. I was nine the first time he cut my back open. He threatened to kill my mother if I ever told her.

Eventually, the abuse no longer stayed hidden. He didn’t even try to hide it from Mom. And yet, she stayed. She became pregnant — Puto was born. That man was elated to have a son, but Mom forced him to work if he wanted to support his child. He grumbled but eventually found a job cleaning public restrooms.

I still remember that awful day: coming home from school to see flashing red and blue lights outside. My stomach twisted in fear, convinced he’d finally carried out his threat. But it wasn’t that. Mom had collapsed and died suddenly from a brain tumor. When I arrived, Puto was still clinging to her lifeless body.

He didn’t waste much time after her death. One day, he returned with a woman who claimed to be his wife of three years. Together, they tried to kick me out. But Mom had planned for this. A lawyer arrived, revealing that the house was in my name, along with all her assets. The money was locked in a trust fund that couldn’t be touched until I turned eighteen. Some funds were allocated for Puto’s medical care — and only for that purpose. Maybe she knew he would try to take everything. They couldn’t access the money as long as I was alive, so they kept me here like a prisoner.

Puto understands far more than a child his age should. He sometimes says he wishes he’d pass away before my eighteenth birthday. His words stab me deeper than any wound.

I laid back on my mattress, wishing I could tell Mom everything I’d kept bottled up. I finally understood why she never allowed me to call that man “Dad.” Sometimes I wonder about my real father. Was he any better? Or was keeping me from him my mother’s way of protecting me?

As I closed my eyes, the pain from the fresh bruises throbbed dully under my skin. I forced myself to ignore it. Tomorrow was another workday. I needed to survive.

The Next Day

When morning came, my whole body ached, stiff and sore. But I had to move—for Puto. I barely slept most nights, getting up every few hours to check on him. Slowly, I dragged myself up, wincing with every movement. I pulled on one of my three pairs of office pants and a plain blouse before heading to the bathroom.

The cold water from the shower stung as it touched the reopened wounds on my back. I watched faint streaks of blood run down the drain. The most recent beating came from Damon’s new wife. As if my stepfather wasn’t enough, now I had her cruelty to deal with too.

After dressing, I made my way to Puto’s room to give him his medication and feed him breakfast before leaving, hoping the monsters in my house would stay asleep long enough.

The company I worked for wasn’t exactly small, but not huge either — a mid-tier branch linked to a much larger corporation. I’d managed to get in despite my age, thanks to years of freelancing experience. Nobody cared about paperwork here as long as you delivered results.

Today was special — one of the major company’s future CEOs was visiting. My boss, trusting me more than anyone else, asked me to be the one to guide him during his tour.

I stood outside, waiting nervously as a sleek, expensive car pulled up. The sheer luxury of it screamed money. Straightening my jacket, I tried to mask my exhaustion behind a polite smile.

A man in a black suit opened the car door. First I saw the polished black shoes, then the tall figure emerging. He had warm honey-toned skin and wavy light brown hair that caught the sunlight. But what struck me most were his eyes — deep brown, like melted chocolate. I’d never seen anyone quite like him.

“Good morning, sir. My name is Mirabella Alexander Russo, and I’ll be your guide during today’s tour,” I greeted him.

His eyes locked onto mine, and for a brief second, something flickered there — surprise, perhaps — before his expression turned cold and unreadable.

“Your… name?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard me correctly. Or out of everything, he decided to ask this one dumb question.

I repeated,

“Mirabella Alexander Russo.”

He fell silent for a moment before giving a small nod. I led him through the various departments, explaining everything in detail, keeping my professional mask firmly in place despite the sharp pain flaring in my back with each step.

As we approached the CEO’s office for the final part of the tour, he suddenly spoke again.

“Do you know Alexander Russo?”

I froze for a heartbeat before answering calmly,

“You mean my biological father?”