Mafia's Girl

Savina Morelli

If you ever want proof that the universe plays favorites, look no further than my cousin Viviana Accardi.

She's the kind of girl people write sad poems about. You know, "tragic beauty with a broken past" and all that dramatic shit. Her father and brother are dead, her mother's on her deathbed, and somehow—somehow—she's still the one everyone treats like a delicate little snowflake instead of the storm she actually is.

Me? I get called dramatic for rolling my eyes too loud.

Mom says I'm jealous. She says Viviana's life is a "lesson in survival." I think its a lesson in performance. Because, no matter how many people die around her, Viviana always walks away untouched. Untouched, undeserving, and unimpressed.

But today isn't about her. For once, its about me.

Sort of.

I'm standing in our kitchen, staring at an envelope that's apparently important enough to hand-deliver to Don Vitale himself. Not mail. Not courier. Not even one of our drivers. Me.

I fold my arms and lean against the counter. "This is stupid. Why don't you send Marco? Or literally anyone who doesn't have a uterus."

Across from me, Mom—Mirella Morelli, socialite, serpent, and all-around iron fist—sets down her espresso cup with a clink. "Because Marco doesn't have your smile. Or your hair. And Don Vitale responds better to softness than testosterone."

I make a face. "What's in it?"

She doesn't answer. Instead, she glides across the marble, like a ghost in heels, and picks up the envelope from the table. Its thick. Sealed with red wax. Classy. Threatening.

"Its a message," she says, brushing a speck of dust off it like it offended her. "Nothing for you to worry about. Just hand it to Don Vitale, smile, and leave."

"Right," I say dryly. "Because, showing up uninvited to a mafia boss's mansion, to hand him a mystery letter, is totally how I thought I'd die."

Her eyes narrow. "Don't be dramatic, Savina. He knows who we are."

Yea. And that's what worries me.

Don Vitale is a name you don't say too loudly, even in a house like ours. He's old-school. The kind of man who doesn't raise his voice but can silence a room just by standing in it. The last time he made the news, someone's head turned up in a wine cellar. Not exaggerating either. No one asked questions. No one had to.

I bite the inside of my cheek. "Does this have anything to do with Viviana?"

Her hand stills. Just for a second. "That girl has been a shadow over this family for long enough. It's time we cleared the air."

Which is Mom-speak for: Yes, and don't ask again.

She presses the envelope into my hand. Her nails, manicured to perfection, dig into my skin a little too hard.

"Don't screw this up," she whispers.

I won't. I want to say. Because, unlike Viviana, I actually follow through.

But instead, I nod. I scurry out the door.

The car ride is quiet. Too quiet. I didn't bring music. Didn't want anything breaking the tension buzzing in my skull like a dying lightbulb. The city bleeds away behind me, and all that's left is stone walls, wrought-iron gates, and the kind of silence that makes you feel watched even when your alone.

Don Vitale's estate rises like a fortress. Black iron twisted into spikes. Statues carved in stone that stare down at you like they know how your story ends.

This is what real power looks like.

Not the curated shit Mom uses at luncheons. Not the kind that Viviana gets by crying at the right time. This is fear. And respect. The kind I want.

Which is why I don't turn the car around. Even when my hands shake. Even when the guards at the gate make me roll down my window and give them my name twice.

"Savina Morelli," I say, chin high. "Here on behalf of Mirella Morelli?" I finish with a "duh" tone. "I have a message for Don Vitale."

They exchange looks. Then one steps away and speaks into his earpiece.

I wait. Staring up at the mansion. The windows reflect the sky like mirrors, impossible to see through. Like they're watching you back.

The gate opens.

I pull in.

This is it, I think as I park. The start of something. Maybe the end on Viviana's hold on all of us. Maybe the start of mine.

I smooth my hair in the rearview mirror. Smile.

Fake. But convincing.

My heels echo across the marble as I'm led inside. The place is colder than it looks. Not in temperature—vibe. Like even the walls are holding their breath. I pass oil paintings older than my entire bloodline. A statue that looks like it costs more than our house. Men in black suits with eyes like dead glass.

They don't talk. Just walk.

Finally, they step in front of two black double doors. One opens it for me.

I step inside.

There he is.

Don Vitale.

He doesn't look up right away. He's sitting behind a dark wood desk, hands folded, a single glass of whiskey beside him. Silver at his temples. A face carved in stone. I realize—he is where his son, Enzo, got his eyes from. Except colder.

I swallow.

"Don Vitale" I say, stepping forward. "A message. From my mother."

I hold out the envelope.

He looks at it. Then looks at me.

A long, impossible second passes.

Then:

"You're Mirella's girl. Don Alessandro Bellandi's grandchild."

It's not a question.

I nod. "Yes, sir."

He stands slowly. Walks around the desk, toward me. I hold my breath.

"Tell your mother," hey says, voice low and even, "I don't like messangers with mouths."

My confusion only lasts a blink when I'm suddenly staring down the barrel of a pistol. He slides the envelope from my now clammy hands.

There's a sharp click.

And everything goes black.

Dear Don Vittorio Vitale,

I hope this letter finds you in good health, though I suspect your sharp instincts tell you that what I'm about to say will be difficult to read. I write with pleasure, but with a heavy sense of duty—as both a mother and a loyal ally to the Vitale name.

There are matters I feel you should be made aware of. I have long tried to keep peace with our families, but recent events have made that increasingly difficult. I'm afraid that trust—the very foundation of our long-standing alliance—has been fractured from within. The source, I regret to inform you, is my own niece: Viviana Accardi.

Over the past year, it has come to my attention that Viviana has been engaging in conversations with individuals, I believe, have connections to smaller independent groups who've long attempted to capitalize on the cracks between our families. Some of these exchanges, unfortunately, happened not just behind her mother's back, but with full knowledge of sensitive information only a family member would have access to.

I have included what little evidence I could obtain—a few transcripts, and a partial still from surveillance footage I was discreetly made aware of. They may appear inconclusive at first glance, but I trust you will read between the lines as I did.

Viviana has become a liability, one I fear may cost us more than just pride, if left unchecked. Her recent behavior following the deaths of her father and brother have grown erratic. I do not blame her for grieving, but grief does not absolve betrayal.

This is not a call for war. This is a warning—from one family to another.

I advise you to tread carefully. Whatever loyalties Don Bellandi may still hold toward his granddaughter, I suspect even he would see reason if presented with the facts.

I leave the rest in your capable hands.

With deep respect,

Mirella Morelli