Page 107 of That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia

“Enjoying your wine, Mother?” I ask, my tone sharp and unyielding.

The Bratva family leader stands, concerned they might have been poisoned too. The tension crackles in the air, and I hold up a hand, a smug calmness filling me as I reassure them.

“No worries,” I say, my voice steady and smooth as I pick up her glass. “This wine was special. Only for my mother today.”

Their faces twist into expressions of doubt and unease as the blood-curdling scene continues. Stella’s body hemorrhages,blood thick and dark like tar, pouring from her mouth and eyes. I don’t flinch. I watch as her agony drags on, and I feel nothing but cold detachment. The woman who haunted my every step, the woman who poisoned everything I loved, is dying before my eyes. For real this time.

The seconds feel like hours. I can hear the blood sloshing around, her body convulsing violently, but I don’t feel anything.

And then—finally, after what feels like an eternity—her body falls still. She dies.

I stare at her, emotionless. The room is silent, save for the soft rustle of clothing as the others shift uneasily.

The doors around the cellar open. My father’s guards and Enzo’s file into the room. Each of them holding a gun to the head of Stella’s guards, who raise their hands in resignation.

When we first arrived at the villa, the guards were instructed to enter the house through a rear exit and wait here. We didn’t want a gunfight outside when my mother arrived.

Enough have died this week and I’m done with the bloodshed.

For now.

“Well, that was gross.” I say, taking Enzo’s hand and hopping off the table. I had been watching my mother’s death so intently, I hadn’t even realized he walked over here.

“You okay, angel?” He whispers as we head back to my seat.

“Yeah.” My heart skips a beat at his concern for me but he’s not alone. Jax and Luca also carry looks of worry, communicating questions with their eyes. I give them a wink and take my seat again.

“Mr. Thomas, you brought my mother’s will as requested?” I take another drink of wine. The fellow heads of families settle back to their seats. Some clearly frazzled, one downs his glass of wine and pours another. Poor Johnny Boy Moretti looks white as a sheet and hangs against the wall still.

He did pick a poor seat because now there is a corpse oozing black tar next to his chair and I can understand that would be a bit unsettling.

“I–I did, Ms. Caputo.” Giuseppe exchanges one set of papers for another underneath. “Though I admit I was confused why you would want to see it. All the matters would be taken care of with your father’s will.”

“Well, I think we both know why now.”

He opens the will, and the same formal, precise language fills the room as he begins to read. “I, Stella Romano Caputo, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath all of my assets, properties, and any interests to my beloved husband, Salvatore Caputo, to be transferred upon my death. In the event of his passing, these assets and properties shall pass to my daughter, Delaney Caputo.”

Francesca smirks, clearly catching on before the others. The ripple of realization spreads as the implications settle over the room.

I lean back in my chair, allowing the silence to work in my favor. “So, to clarify,” I say, my voice carrying, “since my mother faked her death, she couldn’t have amended her will. And now that she’s... indisputably deceased, I inherit not only my father’s Italian empire but my mother’s rebuilt Sicilian empire as well.”

Giuseppe nods, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That is correct, Ms. Caputo.”

The weight of the moment presses down on the room. Two empires—one built by Salvatore Caputo, the other rebuilt in secret by Stella Romano—are now mine. The gathered families shift uneasily, each calculating what this means for their own power and alliances.

Our guards lower their weapons. The Sicilian muscle that have just landed under my jurisdiction now, look on in wide-eyed confusion.

Enzo stands, his cousin follows, raising their glasses in a toast. “To the new queen of Chicago,” he says, his voice smooth and confident.

The other heads of families hesitate, their eyes darting to one another. But one by one, they rise, lifting their glasses, their movements deliberate, acknowledging my ascension.

“To Delaney Caputo,” Francesca says, locking eyes with me. Her piercing gaze is a recognition, and a promise all at once. Of what, I’ll have to wait and find out.

“To Delaney Caputo,” the room echoes.

I raise my own glass, a cold smile on my lips. As the glasses clink and the weight of my new title settles over me, I know this is only the beginning. The world of power, betrayal, and bloodshed I’ve stepped into won’t wait for me to find my footing.

But I’m ready. I’ve been preparing for this moment my entire life—even if I didn’t know it.

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