The Mafia King's Rebel

Scarlett:In all my life, of everything I ever expected to do, I never imagine I’d be standing in front of New York’s most feared mafia king, shivering like a fish, pleading like my life depends on it.“I beg of you,” I keep my voice hoarse. “Please forgive my father's debt.”It feels like a twisted version of Beauty and the Beast, where the lowly girl begs for her life and her father's—but this isn’t a fairy tale. The man in front of me isn’t some misunderstood prince, and I am not some book-loving nerd who dreams of getting whisked away in a castle filled with talking kettles. In fact, I don't believe in fairytales, they are just imaginary illusions that blind us to the reality of life.This man in front of me, who's supposed to be the misunderstood prince is Malakai Lorenzo, mafia king of the biggest underworld organization known in New York, and my father just had to go ahead and gamble all his money to his organization, now my father owes a huge sum of money to this bastard.Peop

Scarlett:The moment I reach home, I smell of burgers and pizza, it must be from the fast food near the subway. I unlock the door and step into our tiny two bedroom apartment. We live upstairs, so downstairs is a laundromat. Sometimes, the stench of detergent and bleach comes from the vents.“Why is it so hot in here?” Sweat is already gathering in the base of my forehead as I kick my shoes to the side. I take a look around our cheap apartment, cardboads are sprewn around the house, it's probably my sister, Lila, working on her school project.“The air conditioner stopped working, I think it's broken or something.” My younger sister, who's just eighteen walks into the living room, dressed in a tank top and shorts.“Thanks, how was school?” I ask softly, dropping the to-go bag on the table. I feel like it's my duty to protect Lila, I was her age when her mother walked out on us and Tella was eight. It was suffocating to suddenly be thrust into a world where I am in charge of my sister,

Malakai:Twenty years ago,Venice, Italy.Malakai lived in a tiny house in Venice with his parents till he was twelve years old, they didn't have much but at least, they were happy. His mother worked as a waitress in the restaurant down a few blocks so she brought leftovers whenever she came home, it was delicious and Malakai never complained, if anything, he was usually very excited when his mother walked through the doors, with the to-go bag containing the leftovers.His father, on the other hand, worked as a mechanic, owning his own shop. Malakai was only allowed to visit during the weekends, he helped his dad repair worn out cars. Their hands would be greasy with oil, but father and son spent a lot of time together. For Malakai, it was more than enough. He didn't have any siblings, and whenever he asked his parents, his father would look at his mother and they would wink at each other and tell him. “We’re working on it, kiddo.”But oh, his parents were so in love. They would danc

Camilla:“Tell me, Camilla, what has my grandson been up to lately?” My mother asks, completely calm as she takes a sip from the glass of wine on the table.I place my hand on my lap and sigh. “He has been quiet lately, mom.” The grandfather clock on the wall ticks absentmindedly as I hold my breath, waiting for her next words. It has always been like this between us—this quiet cat and mouse pull.“He's an ungrateful bastard, after everything I did for him, he shows up to the gala with a girlfriend and storms away,” my mother huffs, “he gets it all from his mother.”I don't say a word.“He has this twisted version in his head that we hate him, and do we? I mean, after his parents died, your father and I took him into the West mansion and raised him to the man he is now.” She shakes her head, and sighs. I just nod my head in agreement…when is she going to remember that it's my thirtieth birthday today? Ever since she dropped by for a glass of wine, she hasn't said a single word about

Malakai:“You have ruined my whole day.” Nico grumbles beside me as I park the car in front of the mansion that belongs to Irish don— Cormac O’Rourke. Ireland sure is cold by the time of this year. Nico was surprised when I suggested an early flight to Ireland to come meet the Irish don.“I don't care what the hell you do every morning, but this meeting is important to us.” I come out of the car, staring up ahead. His mansion is tucked away from normal residence. It's one of those mansions that has been alive since the eighteenth century.Nico can talk however he likes but it took more than six months to secure this meeting with this Irish don. The old bastard had me waiting on purpose.Two guards in dark coats step forward, their rifle positioned. “Names?”“Malakai Lorenzo.” I keep my voice bland. They nod stiffly before we are escorted down the main hall after a thorough weapon search. I guess the old man is afraid of death after all. The hall is flagged with frames of the former O’