Page 106 of That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia

We watch closely as she reaches my father’s door. She’s wearing gloves—gloves that conceal any trace that a woman, presumed dead for two decades, was in the room the night her husband died.

The camera zooms in, and my breath catches as she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a syringe. With careful, practiced movements, she injects something into my father’s foot, between his toes.

“Foot fetish,” I whisper under my breath. A few chuckles ripple from the gathered guests. My continued jabs are chipping away at her composure, and I love it.

The room falls silent again as the footage continues. The scene unfolds with all the heavy weight of history. My mother sits on the bed next to my father, her tone calm, almost soothing. It’s as if she’s about to tell him a bedtime story, revealing everything he didn’t know—everything hidden in the shadows.

My father looks at her, his face a mixture of disbelief and confusion. His gaze lingers on the woman before him—a woman who looks so much like his wife but is older, harder. He clutches his chest, trying to make sense of this impossible moment. His heart is betraying him.

“You’re not... no,” he whispers, his voice strained.

She doesn’t rush to comfort him. Instead, she takes a slow, deliberate breath, letting the poison do its work. His body begins to spasm, his face contorting in pain as the venom spreads. He grits his teeth, fighting to stay conscious, but it’s too much. His body jerks violently. His heart is failing, and the horror on his face mirrors the truth sinking in.

“I never wanted to marry you, Salvatore,” she says, her voice low and detached. “I never wanted a child either. But I wasn’t given a choice.”

The room remains still, every guest listening intently. Even though I’m here, the chill I feel has nothing to do with the air conditioning.

“When my father lost the war, he handed everything the Romanos’ built over to your father—me included. I became your reward for a job well done.” Her eyes flicker with contempt. “You wanted a wife. You wanted a child. But I never wanted you. And I never wanted her.”

She looks toward the camera, as if addressing me directly. Her gaze is cold, devoid of love or warmth. For the first time, I feel the full force of her disgust, but I smirk. I’ve waited years for this truth to come out.

“I hated you,” she continues in the recording, her voice a deadly whisper. “I hated what you put inside me. I hated everything about this life.”

My father’s body spasms again, but his eyes remain locked on hers, his breaths ragged. He tries to speak, but the venom’s grip holds him silent.

“You never figured it out, did you?” she asks, her tone almost amused. “All these years, and you really thought I was dead and never realized who your secret adversary was.”

She pauses, letting the words sink in. “I faked my death. ‘Lost at sea.’ It’s laughable, isn’t it? Too ridiculous to be true. I was certain everyone would think you killed me, especially since Iworked so hard to make it look like you were beating me. But instead, they declared me dead, and I had to adapt.”

I shake my head, feeling a sick twist in my stomach. She’s telling the truth, and somehow, I’ve always known it. But hearing it from her lips is something else entirely.

“I went after what you loved most,” she says, her voice sharp, “your empire. Your treasure.” She tilts her head, speaking of me now—the daughter she never wanted. “I rebuilt the Sicilian empire in secret, right under your nose, and I worked to kill the spawn you made me give birth to. Your precious little treasure.”

My father’s eyes are barely open now, his breaths shallow, his face ashen. “Soon, I’ll have the Italians, stolen from you before your body will be cold in your grave.”

He’s heard enough. His body convulses one last time before going still.

The video ends, the final frame showing my mother’s face frozen in a venomous smile. The silence that follows is thick—suffocating. Stella, realizing the game is up, tries to lunge at me in a rage, but instead, her body spasms violently. She collapses to the floor in a heap.

I don’t flinch. I don’t blink. I watch her contorted body with detached indifference. Several guards rush to her but none go near her, unsure what is happening to her.

“Oops,” I murmur, a faint smirk tugging at my lips. “I forgot. We have another video to play.”

The second video begins, showing Stella sneaking into the wine cellar weeks earlier, injecting poison into the bottles of my father’s favorite port—the same wine she drank today.

The room watches the second video in horrified silence. Stella, cloaked in shadows, moves with deliberate precision, the small vial in her hand catching the dim light. The needle pierces the cork of each bottle, injecting its deadly contents with methodical ease.

“She planned everything,” I say, addressing the room. My voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of disgust as I explain the scene unfolding on-screen. “She poisoned these bottles, knowing my father’s fondness for this particular port. What she didn’t know was that he’d given it up months ago. High cholesterol. Doctor’s orders.”

Murmurs ripple through the guests. Several glance at their own glasses of wine, unease etched on their faces.

“But she couldn’t be patient, could she?” I continue, turning my gaze back to Stella’s spasming body. “When this plan didn’t work, she returned with something stronger, something more direct.”

The video shifts to show Stella a week earlier, sneaking through the same wine cellar where we now sit. The irony is almost poetic.

“And yet,” I say, taking a deliberate sip of my wine, “her arrogance was her undoing. She never anticipated that her own poison would be her end.”

Her body spasms revolt of the poison. Her body jerks violently, veins bulging and turning black as if something sinister is moving beneath her skin. Her skin takes on an unnatural, sickly purple hue, and I watch as the blood vessels in her eyes burst, turning them a deep, terrifying red. She foams at the mouth, her face twisted in agony.

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