Mafia After Death Short Stories & Novels

Raffaele Moretti, the Mafia Don, once made me a promise. If I proposed to him fifty-one times on livestream for the whole world to see, he would show up for the fifty-second and finally make our relationship public. But when the night of my fifty-second proposal came, Raffaele was in the Maldives with his childhood sweetheart, Gianna. He bought her an entire yacht just to put a smile back on her face. I became the laughingstock of the internet. Later, he sent me an apologetic message. “Gianna was upset. I only went with her because she needed a change of scenery. That's why I missed it. Don't read too much into this.” “I'll say yes when you propose for the fifty-third time. Then you'll be my Donna.” Sure enough, he arrived at my fifty-third livestream in a perfectly tailored suit. And as he watched, I set fire to all fifty-two letters I had written asking him to marry me. Hidden among them was my liver cancer diagnosis. "There won't be a fifty-third chance, Raffaele." Because in a matter of days, I would be dead.

Because my little sister Sofia loved playing games of chance, everything in our family was decided by drawing lots. Dinner. School events. New clothes. Even Mom and Dad’s hugs and kisses. Mother kept colored wooden sticks inside a small box. Draw gold, and you won. Draw black, and Sofia got whatever we were competing for. For ten years, I drew black every single time. Mother said she created the game to treat us equally. Whenever I cried or said it wasn’t fair, she told me to stop blaming everyone else for my bad luck. So I practiced every night, shaking the box and listening to the sticks move inside, convinced that one day I would finally draw gold and earn my parents’ love. I never did. On my thirteenth birthday, Sofia wanted the whole family to go to an amusement park. Terrified they would leave me behind again, I secretly painted one of the black sticks gold. Mother caught me. She slapped me, called me a cheat, and left with Sofia. I fell, and one of the wooden sticks pierced my throat. I’m sorry, Mom. If there’s a next life, I’ll try harder to draw the gold stick.

When an attacker threw acid at my face, Mom was attending my cousin Celeste's family induction ceremony. But that day was my eighteenth birthday too. As I lay dying, I used the last of my strength to send her a voice message. [Mom, help me... I'm on the West Side. Someone is trying to kill me.] Her reply came almost immediately. [Stop using these tricks to compete with Celeste for attention, Emilia. I know exactly what you're like.] That same night, the Don summoned Mom back to the Romano estate to investigate an unidentified body found on family territory. The victim's face had been destroyed. Chemicals had eaten away the fingerprints on both hands. Mom led the security team through three days and nights of investigation. From the evidence, she concluded that the victim had been tortured for hours and had died fighting, terrified and utterly without hope. She cursed the killer's cruelty and swore she would make him pay. But she never recognized the body lying in front of her as the biological daughter she hated to mention. Me.

The ninety-ninth thing my adopted sister Isabella took from me was a grave in the sun. I had already paid the deposit, but the cemetery didn’t dare sell the plot to me. Because the Moretti family’s principessa wanted that plot for her dead dog. But I loved that spot. So I called my mother, the Donna of the Moretti family. Her voice cooled the moment I mentioned the grave： “Adriana, are you still pretending you have gastric cancer?” “Isabella just lost her dog. She’s suffered enough. Stop trying to take something else from her.” My father rejected my call. My brother, Luca, answered while helping Isabella choose the dog’s headstone. “Stop buying graves to frighten us. Why are you always so petty? Can't you stand to see your sister have anything good?” I looked at the oncologist’s report in my hand. Seven days. Maybe less. So even when I was truly dying, no one believed me. I chose the only plot left at the edge of the cemetery, where sunlight never reached, and signed the contract. Then I blocked my family one by one. They were right. I needed to stop begging them to care and remove myself from their lives for good. Seven days later, I died alone. That was when the Morettis finally believed me. And lost their minds with regret.

My mother, Vivienne Freeman, was the Donna of Freeman Family. She had her senior engineers develop an advanced lie detector. It looked like a bracelet, and my sister and I each wore one. Whenever I lied, my band flashed red. It could supposedly catch me even when I merely thought about lying. From then on, the band seemed able to read my mind. Even when I kept my mouth shut, it still flashed red. Then Mom would find some way to punish me. I told her countless times that I had never lied, but she refused to believe me. She would not let me question technology she had personally approved. Pointing to my sister's dark band, she demanded to know why it never flashed and why I never told the truth. The day the Family caught a traitor, Mom took my sister and me to watch his execution. A gunshot rang out, and blood spread across the ground. The sight of it made me feel faint, so I begged Mom to let me leave. My band flashed red. My sister picked up a gun and smiled at me. "Mom, Sophie's band is flashing again. She must be figuring out how to deceive you!" Mom glared at me and forced the gun into my hand. "You're the Don's daughter, yet you're a coward, you're frail, and you lie. You don't deserve to be my daughter. Take the gun and shoot him!" The blood made it hard to breathe. My heart raced, strength drained from my body, and I began to suffocate. Even as I started to collapse, Mom kept accusing me of being a coward compared with my sister and a shameless liar. The world spun. Tears ran down my face as pain racked my body. Mom, I never once lied to you, not aloud and not in my thoughts. I never will.

Two years into my marriage with Luca Mancini, I'd gotten used to waiting. Wait until the accounts were settled—then he'd take me on our honeymoon. Wait until the family meeting was over—then he'd celebrate our anniversary with me. Wait until his men were taken care of—then he'd call the private doctor to see me. I knew how hard it was to sit in the Don's seat, so I never cried or made a scene about it. I even took half the work off his shoulders without being asked. Because of my patience and all the times I stepped back, things between us finally softened. When he was exhausted, he'd lean his head on my shoulder, kiss my forehead, and say: "My Donna, once this busy season is over, I promise I'll make it all up to you." Today was my birthday. He'd promised me half a month ago that he'd spend it with me. I'd booked out an entire restaurant. The cake was cut. I was waiting. But from six to ten, he never showed. Then a photo popped up in my inbox: In the pouring rain, Luca was holding an umbrella, shielding his childhood sweetheart, Anna, tight against his side. The timestamp on the photo read 9:40. Twenty minutes ago. He'd tilted the umbrella over Anna's head, letting the rain soak him through. Then his text came through: "I've got an important meeting. I'll be home late." Looking at that message, I didn't reply "Got it" like the good, understanding wife I always was. I thought I'd gotten used to waiting. I thought if I just cleared every obstacle out of his way, I'd finally get the man who kept his promises. But staring at that photo, my heart sank all the way to the bottom. It was never the waiting I was afraid of. It's just—last month, I was diagnosed with terminal leukemia. This was the last birthday I'd ever have. I stood up, hollow, and walked home alone through the endless sound of rain. The man I'd been waiting for—I couldn't wait for him anymore.

On the way to my wedding, our car was ambushed. The guards rushed me and Camilla to our family's private clinic. I was bleeding heavily. Blood completely soaked my bridal gown. My mother Alessia holds absolute power over the family. She took one cold look at me. Then she turned around and called in the top trauma team. She made them examine Camilla over and over, all for a minor scrape on Camilla's forearm from a stray bullet. "Camilla's wound is in plain sight," Alessia snapped. "If this leaves an ugly scar, how will she ever stand among high society?" I begged her to stay. She just brushed me off without a second thought. "You are my flesh and blood. You should be tougher than this. If I save you first, the men will think I am playing favorites with family." "Once I take care of Camilla, I will see to you." She walked away without looking back once. I could feel my life slipping away from me. Weakly, I grabbed Dominic. He had just stripped off his leather gloves. "Dominic, save me... the broken steel beam from the door stabbed right into my chest..." Before I could finish, he shoved my bloody fingers away with pure disgust in his eyes. "You were curled up in the reinforced armored back seat. Camilla was in the front passenger seat with zero cover. How could you be hurt worse than her?" "Gianna, drop the sick jealousy. Do you have to fight Camilla for attention every damn time?" He turned and walked straight into the sterile trauma room. He forgot. When the gunfire erupted, he was the one who yanked the steering wheel to shield Camilla next to him. He swung the car around. He made the back seat take the full hit from the truck. I took every ounce of the deadly impact meant for her. Alessia even cut off the ER doctor during his critical report. She yelled in his face. She accused him of acting along with me to beg for attention. Then she ordered everyone to treat only Camilla's "severe trauma." My vision began to darken. The twisted steel beam bit deep into my ribs.