Page 20 of That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia

It’s strange, the things you forget and the things you remember when you’re a kid. The mind locks away details, only to release them years later, through the lens of adulthood.

While the memory of the hot chocolate is isolated, I remember the night my mother went missing with painful clarity.

I clutched my teddy bear tightly to my chest, watching the rain push against the tall living room windows. The room felt like a fishbowl, cold and dark. Lightning streaked across the sky in silver veins, each strike making me flinch.

My father opened the sliding door to the balcony, and I can still feel the breeze pricking my skin. I brush my arm now, trying to wipe away the phantom sensation.

He was on his phone, the other hand pressed to his hip. He wore a suit, as always, though his white shirt’s sleeves were rolled up, the top button undone. It was the most informal I’d ever seen him, yet it made him feel like a stranger.

He didn’t shut the door completely, and his words carried inside on the wind. “What do you mean there’s no contact with the boat?” His tone was sharp, each clap of thunder fueling his anger. “Find her.”

Then he saw me. He knocked on the window, snapping his fingers twice to get Rosia’s attention. She usually left hours earlier, but she stayed late because of the storm.

Rosia nodded, ushering me away from the window and toward my room.

It was always like that after that night.

I didn’t know what to think. I thought I’d done something wrong by overhearing his conversation. I thought his anger was directed at me. And when they found my mother’s boat two weeks later, capsized, and empty, I thought his rage was grief.

But now I wonder...

What if he wasn’t just sad? What if he was guilty?

What if it was his “work” that led to her death? The storm, the two weeks of waiting, the lie about the boat—it all seems clearer now, knowing what I know about him.

Was it the mafia that took her life because of him?

Maybe the same vendetta that took her life is the one that finally claimed his.

Even as I think this, there’s a strange detachment, like the storm outside is mirrored inside me—chaotic, yet distant. A storm that isn’t mine to own.

Enzo and Luca’s conversation about the suspicions surrounding my father’s death—about the strange activity and the war between families—keeps echoing in my mind. My eyes flick to them in the front seat.

Luca is driving, one hand on the wheel while the other grips Enzo’s thigh in a possessive hold, drawing lazy circles on his leg. Enzo scrolls on his phone, unbothered.

Something about seeing them like this—it’s comforting in a way I don’t quite understand. Each of them hurt me, and I swore I would hate them for the rest of my life. But then I turned the dynamics of our relationships into dark romance books and became a best-selling author. My series all revolve around these three men:

My stepbrother.

My ex-fiancé.

My billionaire boss.

They may have tossed me out of their lives, but no matter how much I pretend I’ve moved on, the truth is they’re burrowed so deep under my skin, it’s impossible to remove them.

Pulling my gaze away, I open the burner phone Luca gave me yesterday. I check the apps, and sure enough, several of the ones I use for mindless scrolling are already set up with fake accounts.

I search for news about yesterday’s shootout—or, you know, my fucking house blowing up. But there’s nothing. Not a single peep. If I hadn’t been there, watching a swarm of shooters dart across my yard and pepper my house with bullets, you could argue I imagined it all.

But there were deaths. The florist, shot through the head. The attackers, their bodies scattered across my lawn like grotesque garden gnomes. And Stacie—she had a whole fridge dropped on her head like something out of a goddamn Acme cartoon.

And yet... nothing. No news. No chatter in the local neighborhood groups. Just silence.

Could they really have cleaned up that many bodies so quickly? Silenced the neighbors? How do you explain a house explosion?

The thought only fuels the nagging suspicion about my mother. Was she a victim of the mafia too, her death swept under the rug to protect secrets? Secrets that died with those who knew them.

Scrolling through social media, I let the short videos distract me, pushing away the heavy thoughts of hot chocolate, a ghostly little girl, and a murdered mother. I search for my favorite influencers and follow them.

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