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Christopher D’evone:

They said my father ruled the underworld with a smile and a gun. He wasn’t just feared—he was respected. A king among criminals.

But even kings fall—and his crown didn’t slip in battle.

It slipped in bed—with a woman.

I was thirteen when I realized love made him weak.

Now I’m thirty, and I don’t make that mistake.

I don’t fall. I don’t trust.

And I sure as hell don’t forgive.

Especially not the woman who used to call him husband... or the girl coming back to bury him.

“No!!... I want chicken sandwich and not this!” my daughter, Amara, yelled, stomping her foot so hard the marble floor echoed.

Even as a Mafia Lord—feared by governments, hunted by enemies—to her, I was a golden retriever in a suit.

“Okay, princess… easy now,” I said, crouching to her level.

Her arms folded like a CEO about to fire someone. “You always say that when you’re trying to trick me.”

Too smart for six. Too bold for her size.

Just like her mother. God help me.

“I wouldn’t dare trick the Queen of the D’evone empire,” I muttered, brushing a curl away from her face. “Chicken sandwich. Extra sauce. I’ll let Maria know.”

She didn’t move. She narrowed her eyes.

“And a unicorn diary. Pink. With glitter. Evelyn brought hers to school and it sings when you open it. I want one too.”

I blinked. “You literally have six diaries. One even has your face on it.”

“That one doesn’t sing,” she said flatly. “And Evelyn’s dad got it for her. Have you forgotten the rule?”

“What rule?” I asked, even though I already knew.

She leaned in, smiling sweetly. “Whatever Amara wants, Amara gets. You made that rule, daddy.”

I sighed, dragging a hand over my face. “You’re such a spoiled little princess.”

“I know,” she said proudly, flipping her curls. “So, chicken sandwich and unicorn diary. Got it?”

“You’re the reason we’re on the tenth nanny,” I muttered under my breath.

“I heard that,” she called over her shoulder as she skipped toward the kitchen.

I stood up slowly, watching her go like a tornado wrapped in sparkles.

“Oh my God… she is one headache,” my cousin Collins said, stepping into the hallway with a glass of whiskey and a smirk.

“I agree,” I muttered, picking up my phone. “Makes me question all my life choices. Free tip: don’t have kids.”

Collins laughed. “You say that like she didn’t just threaten you with glitter demands.”

I scrolled through my notifications—business deals, condolences from family, and… a message.

From step_mother.

I scoffed.

“She’s actually asking me for a million dollars,” I muttered, turning my phone to airplane mode.

“The audacity,” Collins said.

“The stupidity,” I corrected.

He shook his head, chuckling. “You know, I used to think the craziest thing I’d ever see was you in a suit giving a damn speech. But this? This beats it. Asking for a million like we’re running charity out of a mafia house.”

I smirked faintly. “Next thing, she’ll ask for shares in the family business.”

“God forbid,” he said dramatically, clutching his chest. “If that day comes, just shoot me.”

“I’ll do it gladly.”

We both laughed, but the moment didn’t last. Collins sighed, pushing himself off the wall. “Come on. Let’s go see the old man.”

We walked toward the waiting SUV. The driver gave a small nod as we got in—Collins riding shotgun, me in the back, eyes glued to the window.

The estate faded behind us as the car moved.

And just like that, the weight of reality sank in again.

We were heading to the mortuary.

To see my father.

To bury the only man I ever respected—and maybe, the only one who never betrayed me.

After long drive we arrived there.

The mortuary smelled like disinfectant and death. Cold. Silent. Except for the wailing echoing from down the corridor.

Collins and I followed the sound—and there she was.

My stepmother.

Draped in black silk, sprawled on the floor like some tragic actress in a bad drama. Her best friend stood awkwardly beside her, pretending to dab nonexistent tears.

She was screaming. Crying. Kicking her heels against the white tiles.

Anyone with half a brain could see it was all for show.

Collins didn’t even glance at her. I walked past without a word, heading straight for the body.

There he was. My father. Cold. Still. The first man I ever feared—and the last one I respected.

A lump pressed against my chest, but I swallowed it down.

No weakness. Not here.

Suddenly, she was behind me. Clutching her scarf, eyes red—but dry.

“Oh Christopher,” she sobbed, voice cracking like a cheap violin, “I’m so sorry—I couldn’t do anything. Your father left me. I—I’m going crazy—”

I turned slowly, stared at her.

“Woman, please.”

Her fake crying stopped.

“We both know those are crocodile tears. Could you at least try to keep a little dignity?”

She blinked, stunned.

“One minute you’re calling me for a million dollars, the next you’re flinging yourself on the floor like a soap opera reject.”

Her friend gasped. Collins snorted.

“Tell me,” I continued coldly, “is this performance for my benefit, or are you just trying to impress the dead?”

She opened her mouth, but I wasn’t done.

“Save the tears. They won’t bring him back. And they sure as hell won’t save you.”

Her fake sobs froze mid-breath. Then, like flipping a switch, her entire demeanor shifted.

“Do you not have any respect?” she snapped, standing to her full height like she suddenly remembered she had a spine. “I was with you for years, Christopher. I raised you. I watched you grow. And not even a shred of respect?”

“Oh no, you did not,” I said, voice low.

She clutched her chest like I’d struck her. “I wish Steve was here. You wouldn’t dare talk to me like this if he was.”

She sniffled again, shaking her head like the weight of the world sat on her bony shoulders.

“Aren’t you embarrassed?” I asked. “Do you ever stop to think what your daughter—Isabella—would think, seeing you like this?”

The name slipped out before I could stop it. I hadn’t seen Isabella in five—maybe six—years. And yet, just saying it twisted something deep inside me. Something I’d buried.

Her eyes gleamed, and with a sharp swipe of her fingers, she wiped her tears away like they were never there.

“Well…” she said slowly, letting the silence stretch. “She’s back.”

My body stiffened.

She’s back?

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. But something behind my ribs tightened.

“When?” I asked, quieter this time. “Why wasn’t I told?”

She smiled then. Slow. Calculated.

“She came back yesterday.”

My jaw clenched.

“Yesterday,” I echoed. “And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning to me?”

She shrugged, far too casual for someone who should be grieving. “You’ve been so busy with your... empire. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You didn’t want to disturb me?” I laughed, low and bitter. “You’re a walking disturbance.”

“Oh, Christopher,” she said with a pitying shake of her head. “Must everything always be war with you? I thought you’d matured.”

“I thought you’d learned shame.”

“I’m still your mother, whether you like it or not.”

“You’re not my mother,” I snapped. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

She sighed dramatically, pressing her fingers to her temple. “God, I feel so drained. My head hurts. Just… consider my message delivered, alright?”

And with that, she turned to leave, her heels echoing off the mortuary tiles like a warning.

So Isabella came back yesterday… and didn’t call. Didn’t text.

Not even a word.

She didn’t want to see me. Was it because of what happened eight years ago?

Does she still remember it?

Hell, do I?

Even after all this time—after everything we burned down—she still managed to set something inside me on fire.

She should’ve stayed gone.

Because now that she’s back… she’s not leaving again.