The Mafia and the Niqabi: In His Shadow

Prologue:

She was walking fast. Too fast.

Not because she was late, but something unspoken in the silence of Via Minan had changed.

Streetlights flickered above like weak stars. The shuttered windows on both sides looked down like blind eyes.

She clutched her tote bag tighter. Her knuckles whitened around the strap.

“Just five more blocks.”

She fixed her veil, pressing the niqāb back against her cheek as it fluttered in the breeze. The fabric felt heavier tonight. Or maybe it was the weight in her chest.

Her boots struck the pavement in uneven rhythm—soft, fast, then faster still.

Suddenly, a car engine purred softly into existence behind her.

It rolled up beside the curb like it belonged there.

She didn’t look. But, they were talking to her.

“Scusi, sorella, abbiamo bisogno d’aiuto.”

(Excuse me, sister, we need help.)

The voice was polite.

Yet, it didn’t sit well with her.

She stopped. Out of reflex. Years of conditioning taught her to be civil, even when she wanted to flee.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, in accented Italian. “I’m in a hurry.”

Something was wrong. Her steps quickened as she walked away from them.

She stepped left.

So did they.

Suddenly, two men stepped out of that car.

One smiled. His eyes never left her.

That was the moment she knew.

Something terrible was going to happen.

One reached behind his back.

The other moved faster.

Zaira turned. The street spun. Her legs tangled.

Then, they took out a cloth with a pungent and sweet smell.

It slammed over her nose and mouth.

She thrashed. Kicked. Tried her best to free herself.

Her niqāb slipped.

Her scream tried to claw its way out—

But it was silenced before it ever touched her tongue.

Her last thought before the dark swallowed her?

Ya Allah help me...

Prologue ends

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The Milan air bit harder when Zaira wore her niqāb.

Not the temperature. The way the wind turned into suspicion as it wrapped around her face. Strangers glanced, then stared. Scowls. Tightening jaws. Cold flicker in their eyes. And that feeling—always there—that she should shrink, fold into herself, disappear.

Zaira stepped off the 6:45 bus. Her boots scraped the grey curb. She kept her head down. The black niqāb, frayed at the edges, clung to her cheekbones like thin armor. It shielded her from their eyes, but not from what they held inside.

A man brushed past her, muttering, “Go back to where you came from.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at him.

But a small part of her wished she could go. Not to the country he assumed she came from, but to a place where she didn’t have to brace for this—where she wasn’t always one comment, one glare away from breaking.

Italy was her country. She was born here. Raised here. But maybe that wasn’t enough.

She had heard it in three languages now—Italian, French, and once in English, tight and bitter: “You don’t belong here.”

She kept walking. Like it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t wound her soul.

Shops still closed, shutters drawn. A trash bin knocked over near the crosswalk. The city moved on like it always did.

And she moved with it.

She wanted to leave. Start over somewhere she could breathe. But flights cost money, and she had none.

Still, the streetlights lit her path. The sky, pale and opening, gave her dawn. And somehow, she kept walking, putting all her trust in Allah.

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Whoever kills a soul unless for a soul or for corruption [done] in the land - it is as if he had slain mankind entirely. And whoever saves one - it is as if he had saved mankind entirely.

– Qur’an 5:32

The morning smelled of antiseptic and chemicals. Machines beeped behind the walls. But something was off. The air felt thick, unmoving. Heavy like fog before a storm.

Dr. Alessandro Romano stood in front of the mirror. Those who knew him called him Ale.

His white coat was gone. In its place, scrubs soaked with blood. Not a stranger’s.

His twin brother’s.

He stared at his hands. Fingers stiff, still shaking. Dried blood under the nails. They used to move without hesitation—steady, controlled, untouchable in the OR. But today, they hadn’t listened. They’d trembled. Slipped.

Still, he’d operated.

Before the first incision, he’d whispered, Bismillah. Low. Under his breath. Not for luck. For surrender. Because even now, even after everything, he still believed what his heart had accepted long ago:

Allah gives life. Not him.

The locker room door banged open. He didn’t flinch.

“Ale!” Rosa’s voice cracked. She rushed in, breath shallow, one hand gripping the doorframe. “He’s in a coma. Luca’s not waking up.” Her eyes darted, searching his face. “What are we going to do now?”

He turned slowly. No panic. No flare of anger. Just quiet weight.

The words didn’t crash into him—they settled. Like ash after fire.

“I know,” he said. His voice was flat. “But... how did this happen?”

He already knew. The answer throbbed somewhere deep in his stomach.

Rosa dropped her gaze. “The docks. Three bullets. It was meant for Cortez’s crew.” Her voice wavered. “But Luca—he stepped in. Wrong place. Wrong time.”

She paused. “They’ll find out he’s down. And when they do... we’re all exposed.”

Ale clenched his jaw. A pulse jumped in his temple.

He remembered being seventeen. Broken knuckles. Blood on his shirt. Luca dragging him away from a fight, voice low: “In this world, you win by being feared, not by being good.”

Ale had hated that line. Still did. But today, he’d stitched that same chest shut with his own hands.

Rosa reached into her coat pocket and held out an envelope. Her hand shook. No words. Just that tight, braced look.

He took it.

Inside: keys. A black card. And one folded sheet of paper.

Luca’s handwriting. Big, fast, impatient.

Ale,

If you’re reading this, I’m either dead or sidelined. You always hated my life, but you were the only one who ever said so to my face.

Now I need you to be me.

To protect our family.

For Mamma. Rosa. Lorenzo.

Until things settle. However long that takes.

Sit in the chair. Pretend to be me.

Find a way that doesn’t need blood. You always found a way.

Be the man I couldn’t. But wear my face till then.

– Luca

Ale sat down on the bench. Elbows on his knees. The letter hung from his fingers. He stared at the floor, unmoving.

There was no sound. But even the silence felt heavy, thicker than grief.

He’d left this world a long time ago. Loathed it from the marrow out.

But now, he had to go back. Back to the place of blood, filth, and fear. Back to a life stitched together with threats and power plays.

He looked up. The ceiling was nothing but plaster and paint, but he stared like he expected it to open.

“Ya Allah,” he whispered. His throat was tight. His voice didn’t waver.

“Help me protect my family... and save what’s left of my soul.”

The overhead light flickered.

He didn’t blink.

The problem was—he was a surgeon, not a soldier. A healer, not a monster.

In this world, kindness doesn’t speak. Only bullets do.

And now, a man who saves lives had to pretend he could take them.

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