C05
I had been ten years old, bedridden with a high fever that wouldn’t break. My throat had been so inflamed that
speaking was impossible. One night, I woke up burning with thirst. I tried to call for help, but no sound came out. I staggered out of bed, dizzy and disoriented, only to spill the hot water I had managed to pour, scalding my wrist.
When my dad found out, he was devastated. He blamed himself for not being there. A few days later, he presented me with the whistle, handcrafted from a rare metal by a skilled artisan. He had smiled gently and said, “If you ever lose your voice again, just blow this whistle and I’ll come find you.”
From that day on, I never took it off. It became our little joke–I’d blow it whenever I visited him and he’d pretend to come running in mock alarm. It was a silly game, but one that made me feel safe, knowing that no matter what, he
Don’t Mess with A Mafia Princess
would always come.
Now, as the sound of the whistle echoed through the lobby, I clung to that fragile hope. Would he remember?
Would he realize who I was?
But before the note could fully fade, Frankie stormed over, his face twisted with rage. He kicked me hard in the side, sending a fresh wave of pain through my already battered body.
“Enough already!” he barked. “Get her out of here before she makes the boss angry!”
He yanked the whistle from around my neck and threw it to the floor. The metallic clang echoed loudly, followed by a sickening crunch as he stomped on it with his heavy boot.
“You little bitch!” he snarled, eyes blazing with fury. “Ruining my restaurant, aren’t you? Do you have any idea how much money you’ve cost me?!”
Tears pricked at my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood, forcing myself to stay silent. Frankie turned back toward my dad, his demeanor shifting instantly into something more servile.
“Boss, please don’t be upset,” he said, his tone now honeyed with false sincerity. “This was just an accident… nothing worth your time.”
But before he could finish, my dad’s eyes narrowed. His gaze had fallen on the shattered remains of the whistle and something flickered in his expression–recognition, followed by disbelief.
His pupils contracted sharply as he bent down and picked up the broken whistle from the floor. His fingers brushed over the cracked metal and for a moment, he simply stared at it, as though struggling to believe what he was seeing. Slowly, his gaze shifted to me.
“Why do you have Lucia’s whistle?” he asked, his voice low but carrying an edge that made Frankie flinch.
I opened my mouth, trying desperately to speak, but no sound came out. My throat was too dry, too hoarse. I could only meet his eyes, silently pleading for him to see the truth.
Frankie, sensing the change in my dad’s mood, stepped forward hurriedly, his voice rising in panic. “Boss, this little bitch was pretending to be Lucia! She even tried to scam a free meal at the restaurant! Luckily, I caught her in time and taught her a lesson. Can you believe she had the audacity to claim that you and the madam divorced? That
she’s now using her mom’s surname? What utter nonsense! But don’t worry–I’ve already slapped her a few times to
punish her for you.”
My dad’s face, which had been grim throughout Frankie’s tirade, darkened further at his words. The air around him grew tense, heavy with unspoken anger. Without a word, he crouched down in front of me, his movements slow
and deliberate.
Gently, he took my bloodied wrist in his hand. His touch was careful, almost hesitant, as though afraid he might hurt me further. For a moment, he simply looked at my bruised and battered form, his expression unreadable.
But in his eyes, I saw something shift–something deep and powerful, like a wave of emotion too strong to be
contained.
