I Thought My Sister Was a Mafia Boss

When Mary turned and saw me, I instinctively straightened my back.

A line of men stood rigidly in the run-down courtyard while clutching folders in their hands. The man covered in scars, Mark, remained bent at the waist, as though he were waiting for her final order.

She sized me up before asking, “Are you from the Winsley family?”

“I’m John Winsley.”

“I see.”

She then stuffed the brown paper bag into her backpack and turned toward me.

Mark immediately called out in a low voice, “Miss Mary, what about the rest…”

Mary did not turn around. “Same as usual. Don’t leave anyone out.”

My fingertips went numb.

Was she talking about the accounts, or a list of names?

A little boy ran over from the corner and tugged at her sleeve. “Miss Mary, what if they change their minds?”

Mary patted him on the head. “Then, make them learn the rules all over again.”

The little boy nodded. He looked as reverent as if he had just been handed a lucky charm.

A cold sweat broke out across my back.

Mary was just eighteen years old. She wore an old school uniform. Inside a run-down orphanage and surrounded by black cars, there was a man covered in scars and a kid calling her “Miss Mary.”

If I put all those details together, it would sound like the setup for an entire season of a crime thriller.

As I got into the car, I opened the back door for her.

Mary glanced at me before getting into the car.

I skirted around to the other side of the car. I moved carefully as though I were afraid of even brushing against the backpack at her feet.

We were halfway home when Mary’s phone rang.

She answered and said only one thing. “Once it’s signed, seal it up. Don’t give anyone a chance to exploit a loophole.”

What was even more alarming was that, after hanging up, she took out a stack of papers from her backpack and flipped through them one by one. When she reached a certain page, she drew a red line across it.

I rested my hands on my knees. They gradually tightened into fists.

I could already picture black cars filling the driveway outside the Winsley family mansion in the middle of the night. My parents would be forced to sit in the living room and listen as she read out a list of everything they owed.

When the car arrived at the front of the Winsley family home, I let out a long breath.

The welcome dinner began soon afterward.

My father, David, sat at the head of the table.

He put on the air of the head of the family as he said, “Mary, now that you’re back with your family, you’ll need to learn the proper rules. Don’t bring those habits from outside back home.”

My mother, Theresa, gently chimed in as well. She said, “Fiona grew up with us, so she’s familiar with the family’s etiquette and socializing. You should learn from her more often.”

As the servants served the dishes, someone snickered under their breath. “She came from the countryside. I bet she can’t even tell a knife from a fork.”

Meanwhile, Mary picked out the fish bones one by one and lined them up neatly along the edge of her plate.

I stared at that row of tiny bones, feeling chills run down my spine.

That was a sign of her keeping track of who had disrespected her.

Just then, Fiona walked over to Mary, holding a bowl of hot soup. “Mary, have some soup.”

The next second, her wrist tilted.

The scalding soup splashed onto Mary’s legs.

I stared at her, with only one thought running through my mind.

With Fiona’s mindless act of spilling soup all over Mary, Mary might very well leave our family penniless tomorrow.

I instinctively lunged forward and blocked the soup with my forearm.

The dining room erupted into chaos.

Fiona stood there holding the empty bowl. Tears immediately streamed down her face. “John, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to. I was only trying to give Mary a bowl of soup.”

Mary stood behind me. She said very softly, “You didn’t have to block it.”

My heart skipped a beat.

A big shot like her probably did not like owing anyone a favor.

I quickly said, “You just got back to our home. There’s no need for you to handle things yourself yet.”

The dining room fell silent.

Mary looked at me.

I stared back at her. I tried to make my expression as sincere as humanly possible.

My unspoken message was crystal clear. ‘Please give our family a chance to survive,’ I thought.

Mary fell silent for two seconds before taking an ice pack, wrapping it in a towel, and pressing it against my arm.

“Bear with it.”

With only three words, she did it calmly and skillfully. It was as though she had treated countless injuries before.

I sucked in a breath from the pain, but I became even more certain about something.

Mary was definitely not someone to be taken lightly.