Page 104 of That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia

Just as the moment stretches too long, the sounds of cars rushing the mansion sound outside. The guests within the cellar, their guards lining the walls, rustle in agitated nervousness.

I hold out a hand, “Please remain calm and seated. Everything is under control.” I make a point to look at each family head as I speak.

There is no gunfire. Just another stretch of uncomfortable silence before the sound of heels clicking against the marble floor echoes into the interior of the villa.

The rhythmic taps grow louder, echoing through the room. Heads turn, whispers break out, and my pulse quickens. I don’t need to look to know who it is. I’ve been preparing for this moment.

An entourage of bodyguards walk ahead of their boss, lining the room and making a dramatic show of force that is to be an intimidation.

The steps stop just outside my line of sight, and I hear the metallic clink of jewelry. Slowly, deliberately, a manicured hand—long red nails, dripping with gold rings—rests on the table. The fingers curl as she steps into view, her eyes locked on mine. Herhazel gaze is sharp, predatory, and her smile is the kind that sends a chill down your spine.

The room holds its breath but being this is nowmyhouse; I break the silence. My voice is steady, carefully masking the undercurrent of tension and anger lacing my words.

“Hello, mother.”

My mother’s smile widens, relishing the chaos she’s caused in the room. The heads of families who attended her funeral are reeling, trying to process the woman who’s just walked in—alive, after twenty years of being presumed dead. It’s clear she’s enjoying this moment, watching them squirm. She looks at me, her gaze cold but pleased.

“Well, well, Delaney,” she says, her voice silk-smooth, almost condescending. “What a lovely woman you’ve become.”

I swallow down my temper, my heartbeat accelerating. This isn’t the first time I’ve been face-to-face with her—not really. But it feels like the first time. I’ve spent years believing she was gone, buried under a sea of repressed memories. But now, after last night, the truth is as sharp as glass, and I’m not the little girl staring at her reflection anymore.

“No thanks to you,” I respond, my voice steady but carrying the weight of everything I’ll never be able to say.

She raises her wineglass, clearly expecting someone to serve her.

Just like the mystery hand I watched emerge from the shadows at Enzo’s club in Butte. Those red talon nails and gold rings are what connected all the dots for me last night. I felt the weight of that woman’s gaze staring at me from the dark booth, and it’s just as heavy now.

“Serve yourself,” I tell her, my voice sharp and decisive. “No one here will be doing your bidding.”

For a moment, I see a flicker of something—maybe surprise, maybe offense—but she hides it quickly. She’s used to getting what she wants, used to commanding the room, and it bothers her that I’m not playing along.

She stands, walking to the table behind her. Uncorking a bottle of port, she pours herself a generous glass with careful deliberation. The silence in the room stretches, everyone waiting as our family drama unfolds.

“Is this any way to treat your mother after twenty years missing at sea?” she asks, taking a sip, her tone dripping with faux sweetness.

“Missing?” I repeat, the disbelief clear in my voice. “That’s an interesting way to put it for someone who faked her death for two decades.”

She scoffs at my words, as if she’s not used to people questioning her. With a flick of her wrist, she waves away the accusation like it’s nothing. “Being the leader of a mafia family requires sacrifices you could never understand, Delaney.”

I take a deep breath, my resolve hardening. “You’re right,” I reply, my voice cutting through the tension. “I don’t understand. But I’m starting to.”

The tension in the room grows thick, every set of eyes on me as Stella raises an eyebrow over the rim of her wineglass. She takes another slow sip, savoring the control she thinks she still holds.

“Giuseppe,” she says, her voice smooth and dangerous, “since I amstillMrs. Caputo, despite your... widower’s thoughts, it is my right to inherit my late-husband’s estate, not my daughter’s.”

The air in the room shifts. Every eye turns to Giuseppe Thomas, waiting for confirmation. He looks to Stella, then to me, and nods slowly. “That is correct,” he says, his voice even.

The room murmurs with speculation, the gossip rising as events no one could have predicted unfold like a stage play.

I raise my hand, cutting through the whispers. “Question, Mr. Thomas,” I say, my voice strong. “I believe there is a clause in the will stating one cannot inherit the estate of someone they murdered. Is that correct?”

The tension in the room becomes a heavy fog. All eyes snap to me, and then quickly to Stella. She keeps her face neutral, the façade still in place, but the air is charged.

Gasps ripple through the gathered families.

Giuseppe’s face doesn’t waver. He nods again. “That is also correct,” he confirms, his voice tinged with an unspoken understanding of the gravity of the situation.

My mother’s lips curl into a cold smile, one that doesn’t reach her eyes. She tilts her head slightly, as if amused by my boldness. Her laugh echoes in the room, hollow, sharp, and full of malice.

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