08
I opened my mouth, trying to speak, but only a faint, hoarse gasp came out. Panic flickered in my dad’s eyes as
he leaned in closer. “Lucia? What is it? Don’t force yourself.” He quickly grabbed his phone, unlocked it and placed it carefully on my fingers. “Here, type what you want to say,” he urged gently, his voice laced with concern.
The device felt oddly heavy in my trembling hand. Every movement took effort, each keystroke sending a dull
ache through my stiff fingers. I sighed softly, the sound barely audible, before laboriously typing out a sentence: [Hi, dad. Didn’t you promise you’d change? Why is Frankie still in the same business? I just had a meal at the restaurant and was charged a hundred thousand dollars. When I didn’t pay, they threatened to drag me to a massage parlor. Is
that your business too?]
7:04 PM
Don’t Mess with A Mafia Princess
I watched as my dad’s eyes scanned the screen. His face darkened almost instantly, the warmth in his expression replaced by an icy, hardened glare. He opened his mouth, perhaps to explain or deny, but before he could utter a word, a sharp slap echoed through the room.
My mom’s palm remained raised for a split second before she lowered it slowly, her fingers trembling with rage. “Giovanni,” she spat, her voice cold and biting, “did you forget your promise to Lucia? I guess some people never
your
change. Will you only learn when she’s gone?”
The color drained from my dad’s face. He staggered back a step, stunned by her reaction.
“I’m so disappointed in you!” my mom continued, her voice rising with each word. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, her fury barely masking the deep anguish beneath. “If anything happens to Lucia because of you, I will never forgive you for the rest of my life!”
I stared at her, wide–eyed, completely taken aback. I hadn’t expected her reaction to be so much stronger than mine. My mom was always composed, always distant. Seeing her like this, so raw and emotional, made something inside me twist uncomfortably.
I shifted my gaze to my dad, worried he might lose his temper. But to my astonishment, he didn’t. Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of my mom.
“Claudia…” His voice was low and hoarse, weighed down by emotion. His eyes, usually sharp and commanding, were now red–rimmed and filled with regret. “I swear to you, this will never happen again. I’m just as hurt as you are over what happened to Lucia.” He paused, taking a deep breath as though trying to steady himself. “Don’t worry.
After Lucia recovers, I’ll deal with this matter. I won’t let her suffer like this again!”
The room fell into a heavy silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. My mom turned her back to him, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her hand.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the faint beeping of the monitors beside my bed.
Then, in a quieter voice, my mom said something that caught me completely off guard. “Don’t let her end up like
Antonia.”
Antonia? The name was unfamiliar, yet hearing it stirred something within me. I turned to my mom, confused, but she avoided my gaze, staring instead at the window as though lost in thought.
It was from her words that I learned a secret I had never known: I wasn’t an only child.
I had an older sister, Antonia.
I always thought my parents‘ divorce was because my dad was too domineering, too controlling. But the truth was far more tragic. When Antonia was eight years old, she was abducted, assaulted and killed by one of my dad’s enemies.
The revelation hit me like a punch to the gut. I felt the breath leave my lungs as the weight of those words settled over me. My mom’s world had collapsed that day. Antonia’s death became a thorn in her heart, one she could never
remove.
It was after that tragedy that she began considering divorce. At first, she harbored thoughts of revenge, thoughts of making those responsible pay. But then I came along and those dark thoughts slowly faded. My dad believed that I was the reason she could let go of the past, that I could be her hope for a new life. But when I was six, she finally asked for a divorce.
My dad wanted to fight for their marriage, but he knew that the pain of losing Antonia was something my mom could never overcome. For years, he had searched tirelessly for the culprit behind Antonia’s death. He never found a solid lead–only an old photo of a suspect.
When my dad showed me the photo, I stared at it for a long time. There was something about the person’s face that seemed oddly familiar, though I couldn’t immediately place where I had seen them before.
I hesitated, then slowly typed out another message on the phone: [How do you plan to handle this situation
7:04 PM ·
Don’t Mess with A Mafia Princess
now?]
My dad’s eyes darkened further as he read my words. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening. “I’ll make them pay,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Every single one of them. A hundred fold.”
I watched as his hands curled into fists at his sides. The veins on his forearms stood out, pulsing with barely restrained rage. “When I found out that one of Frankie’s men had the audacity to suggest making you his mistress…” He trailed off, his voice shaking with fury. “I nearly tore apart this entire hospital.”
I didn’t doubt him for a second. My dad’s anger was palpable, a simmering storm waiting to be unleashed.
But amid all of this, one thought nagged at the back of my mind: Vincent.
He was the one who had dragged me into this nightmare. If it hadn’t been for him, I would never have gone to that restaurant. I would never have crossed paths with Frankie’s men.
When I asked my dad about Vincent, he told me that Vincent had fled.
I found it strange. Vincent didn’t strike me as someone with a connection to the underworld. How could he possibly know someone like Frankie? It was too bizarre to be mere coincidence.
The questions lingered in my mind, unanswered. But I didn’t have the strength to dwell on them for long. My recovery was slow and grueling. I stayed bedridden for an entire month, followed by two months of painful rehabilitation before I could walk again.
During those months, my dad visited me every day, guilt etched into every line on his face. He rarely spoke, but his presence said enough. He stayed by my side, watching over me like a silent guardian.
My mom, however, remained distant. She refused to show him any kindness. After learning about Antonia’s story, I stopped trying to change her mind. Some wounds, I realized, never truly heal.
