Bride of the Underworld Mafia King

They only ever say “I love you” when they need something from you.

My father never said it at all.

Instead, he called me his insurance.

He’d do it in the aftermath of fury, after his voice had scorched the walls and a crystal tumbler shattered on the ground like a warning shot. His cufflinks would still be clinking as he re-buttoned his sleeves, his cologne choking the air.

“You’re the fallback, Lana,” he muttered once, not looking at me. “The one I keep close in case everything else goes wrong.”

That was the moment I understood it was the closest I would ever come to mattering to him.

But before I was a fallback, I was something much worse.

I was a secret.

My mother and I lived in a two-story townhouse in the city, where the brick walls were half-swallowed by mould. The entire design of the house had been arranged for someone else’s eyes.

When the doorbell rang, I knew how to disappear quickly. If her phone buzzed, I had to be silent. If she said, “Lana, wait upstairs,” I didn’t ask why; I just ran. That’s what she taught me and how I grew up.

She told me we were his “private life.” A precious thing he protected by keeping us out of sight.

I believed her. She was the sweetest human ever. Of course I didn’t know any better than to believe the woman who tucked me into bed each night with stories of kingdoms and queen mothers who burned worlds for their sons.

My father, my mother’s lover, came rarely. But whenever he did, he never stayed long. He would bring gifts and books in foreign languages, as if objects could fill the empty space he always left behind.

Still, my mother smiled like it was enough. Like the scraps he left behind were worth swallowing whole. And every time he left, she cried where she thought I couldn’t see her.

That particular night, the night my world came crashing down, she had just been tucking me into bed when she lurched forward and vomited blood, thick and dark against the pale floor. My whole body froze. Then she collapsed, her body trembling as she slid down beside the bed.

I scrambled out from under the blanket and dropped to the floor, trying to lift her. Her hands clawed weakly at the tiles, her face pale and slick with sweat, her lips moving but no sound coming out. I stared at her, my mind completely blank. Who was I supposed to call for help? My hands shook as I grabbed her phone and unlocked it. There was only one contact saved. Mr. Vincent Virelli.

I dialed and the ringing went on and on until finally someone picked up.

“Little bitch,” a woman’s voice spat, sharp enough to slice through my ear. “You dare to call my husband so late at night?”

“Please… please, ma’am, my mum…” I was choking on my own tears, words breaking apart in my throat. “My mum is dying… there’s blood everywhere.”

“So what? I wish your mum would die even faster.”

The line went dead.

I called over and over again, desperate, screaming and begging. There was no answer.

On the floor beside me, Mum’s body trembled. She lifted her hand with what little strength she had and pressed her palm to my cheek. “Lana,” she whispered, her voice thin and breaking, “please don’t be so sad.”

“Mum! Mum! You’ll be alright, okay? I’m going to get help.” My cries tore through me, spilling until my tears mixed with the blood on the tiles.