MY DAUGHTERS BELONGS TO THE THREE OF THEM

                         ~ELENA~

I know something is wrong the moment they come back into my room after taking Fiorella and Marcella to the nursery.

Not because they say anything.

But because the house feels… heavier.

Vincenzo closes the door behind them carefully, like the walls might be listening. Nico doesn’t joke. Riccardo doesn’t come straight to Camilla like he's supposed to.

They just stand there.

Three powerful men who usually fill every room they enter ….suddenly quiet, tense, coiled.

My stomach tightens.

“What happened?” I ask.

Vincenzo looks at me like he’s deciding whether to lie.

He doesn’t.

“The Mafia council called us. They are calling for a meeting.”

“They called too fast,” Nico says.

“They were patient longer than I expected,” Vincenzo replies. “Which means they’ve decided something.”

The word Council lands like a gunshot in my chest.

I straighten slowly, Camilla still sleeping against me. My body is sore, my arms weak, but fear gives me strength I didn’t know I had.

“Why?” I ask, though part of me already knows. “About what??”

“They’re angry,” Nico says flatly. “About our father.”

“And about the girls,” Riccardo adds.

Silence followed. Heavy. Ominous.

My fingers curl instinctively around Camilla.

“Tell me everything,” I say. “Don’t soften it. Don’t protect me. I need to know. It's my kids we're talking about here.”

Vincenzo exhales once, sharp and controlled.

So he tells me.

“I'll go with you to the council meeting,” I tell him when he's done talking.

Three of them raise their eyebrows at me instantly.

“No, Elena. It'll be dangerous,” Vincenzo says.

“Vincenzo is right. Besides you need to stay at home to take care of the kids,” Nico adds.

“I'll call Valentina and Gianna over. They'll help out while we're away,” I say.

“I refuse, Elena,” Vincenzo says in a firm tone but I won't be backing down.

“I must go. I can't sit still at home while some group of Mafia men decides the fate of her children. What sort of mother doesn't protect her children?? I need to be there whether you like it or not!” I say stubbornly, daring Vincenzo to challenge me one more time.

“Let her go with us,” Riccardo says. “If she wants to be there, then let her. She's their mother after all. And we'll protect her if she is in danger.”

I give Riccardo a look of gratitude for supporting me and he acknowledges it with a slight nod of his head.

Vincenzo is quiet for a while, debating on something inwardly before he finally speaks.

“Okay fine. You're coming with us.”

“Good,” I reply. “Let's start preparing to leave then.”

******

The Council hall is older than the city itself.

Cold marble floors. Heavy wooden doors carved with symbols of bloodlines and power. Oil paintings of dead men staring down like gods who never learned how to die.

I walk between the brothers.

Not behind them. Not hidden.

I wear black….simple, loose, practical. No jewelry. No makeup. My hair pulled back. 

My girls stay with Gianna and Valentina at home, and leaving them nearly breaks me, but I know what this meeting means.

The guards open the doors.

And twelve men turn to look at me.

Some with disgust. Some with curiosity. Some with hunger.

Twelve men are sitting around a long, polished table—each one a relic of an era that raised my lovers, judged them, and now fears them.

We don’t bow.

That alone earns murmurs.

“This is the girl,” one of them mutters.

“Your stepsister,” another says aloud, deliberately.

Vincenzo’s hand tightens around mine.

Don Salvatore, the oldest of them all, leans forward, eyes sharp and assessing.

“Elena Romano,” he says. “Or do you no longer carry that name?”

“I carry the name I survived,” I reply before any of the brothers can stop me.

A ripple of surprise moves through the table.

“Bold,” he says mildly. “Given your position.”

“My position,” I say, voice steady despite the fear crawling up my spine, “is the mother of three daughters you keep whispering about like they’re sins instead of human beings.”

Silence.

Then laughter.

Low. Mocking.

“Daughters?” one Don scoffs. “Born of incest and arrogance.”

Nico slams his palm on the table. “Say that again.”

Don Salvatore raises a hand. “Enough.”

His gaze fixes on me.

“Tell us,” he says calmly, “how you came to be pregnant.”

The question makes my skin crawl.

“I don’t owe you my body’s history,” I reply.

“You do when it threatens the balance of this world,” he says. “You were raised as their sister.”

“By marriage,” I snap. “Not blood.”

“Still improper,” another Don interjects. “Still unholy.”

Vincenzo steps forward.

“We didn’t come here to debate morality,” he says. “You called us because you’re afraid.”

That earns him sharp looks.

“You murdered your father,” Don Salvatore says. “And seized control without Council approval.You stand where your father once stood.”

The word is sharp. Intentional.

“You call it murder,” Riccardo says quietly. “We call it justice.”

“You killed the man who gave you your name,” another Don spits. “And then you stand here to talk about justice. What son kills his father??”

Riccardo's jaw tightens, while Nico clenches his fist.

“We ended a tyrant,” I say calmly. 

“And then,” the Don continues, ignoring me completely, “you produced three children with no clear paternity.”

My heart starts pounding.

“We demand clarity,” he says. “Who is the father?”

“No,” another adds, leaning forward. “We’re questioning how you made your stepsister pregnant.”

Riccardo finally speaks, voice quiet and lethal. “Watch your words.”

“This Council will speak as it sees fit,” Don Salvatore replies. “The girl is blood-related by marriage. This union is forbidden. Unholy. An embarrassment.”

I feel the room tilt. Vincenzo's hands curl into fist.

“You broke tradition,” the Don continues. “You killed your father. And now you present us with children whose paternity is a mystery.”

He slides a file across the table.

“We demand the truth.”

None of us touches it.

“You will provide the name of the real father,” he says. “Immediately. The girls will be registered under him. The bloodline must be clear.”

“One of you will step forward,” another Don says. “Claim them. The rest will step aside.”

“No,” I say immediately.

Every head snaps toward me.

“They don’t belong to one man,” I say, voice shaking now but unbroken. “My daughters belong to all of them.”