Goya
After my husband, Don of the Rizzo family, died in a shootout, I took over the family and wiped out the one that killed him.
To groom my daughter into the next heir, I handpicked four adopted sons to protect her.
Ten years. I poured everything into them—my name, my money, my time. And every last one of them turned out exceptional and self-reliant.
Over the years, with them at her side, my daughter moved forward steadily.
Until the month before my daughter was about to take over my position, I got a desperate call from her.
"Mom, help me... someone's got me trapped in the banquet hall. They're trying to rip my clothes off..."
By the time I got there, my daughter was curled up in a corner, half her gown torn apart.
And the four adopted sons I'd raised with my own hands? Standing outside the door with some girl, watching the show.
All of this—because my daughter had gotten into an argument with her.
When they saw me, there wasn't a shred of guilt on their faces. Just impatience.
The eldest stepped in front of the girl.
"Mom, she's the one who mouthed off first and pissed Isabella off. Since she never learned to respect people, I figured I'd teach her some manners for you."
The third one's eyes flickered with disrespect.
"Handling our little sister—that's not something you need to worry about."
One look at their smug faces and I was done.
Clearly, they'd forgotten who the real head of this family is.