In Love With My Mafia Don Stepbrother

ELENA

"He was a good man, Elena. Your father was one of the kindest souls I've ever known."

I nodded silently as Mrs. Greer squeezed my shoulder. The rain pelted down on us, soaking through my cheap black dress. But I didn't care. Nothing mattered to me anymore.

"If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to call me," she continued. Her voice cracked and she paused for a moment before she went on. "You shouldn't be alone right now, Elena."

But I was alone. Completely and utterly alone. I had no one else in this world to call my family.

"Thank you," I managed to whisper. My eyes were completely fixed on the fresh mound of dirt that now held my father even as tears blurred my vision.

Then one by one, the small group of mourners stared to depart until I was the only one left standing in the bleak looking cemetery. My father hadn't been a popular man, but he had been mine. And now he was gone. And I was left alone in this cold world.

I don't know how long I stood there before I finally had the heart to turn away. My feet felt heavy as I walked to the bus stop. At eighteen, I couldn't even afford a taxi to my father's funeral. How depressing was that? 

When I eventually got to our small apartment, I paused outside the door for a while. The silence that greeted me was deafening in its intensity. There was no sound of coughing from my father's bedroom. And there was no sound of the old TV he loved to watch. There was no sound of anything at all.

As I turned the lights on, the first thing I noticed was the messy pile of envelopes on the table. I had been avoiding them for days, but I couldn't continue to do that anymore. So I dropped my wet black purse on the floor and sat down.

The first envelope had a bold red stamp across it. FINAL NOTICE, it read. The second one was the same. The envelopes were all a jumble of medical bills, rent past due, electricity, water and a whole lot of other assorted bills. And at the bottom of the pile, there was a thick envelope that had no return address.

I immediately tore it open with shaking hands.

"Miss Moretti, your father's debt of $75,000 is now due in full. Payment is expected within 48 hours. Consequences for non-payment will be severe,” I read around even in spite of my shaky voice.

My stomach dropped. Seventy-five thousand dollars? Where had my father gotten that kind of money? Who had he borrowed it from? And what had he needed it for?

Lots of questions were running through my mind in that moment so I rushed to his bedroom, beginning to pull open his drawers hurriedly as I searched through his closet. There had to be some explanation. My father was a factory worker. We barely made ends meet each month. How could he owe someone so much money?

In the back of his closet, I found a small metal box. It looked strange; I had never seen it before. Inside it were stacks of papers, old photos, and a sealed envelope addressed to Isabella Moretti.

My hands flew to my mouth. That was my mother’s name.

I stared at her name, written in my father's careful handwriting. He had never talked much about her, only that she had left us when I was eight. I had vague memories of her. Mostly the scent of her flowery perfume, her dark hair, and her warm laughter. After she left, those memories faded more and more after each passing year.

I was suddenly curious so I quickly ripped open the envelope.

“Isabella,

I know you don't want to hear from me, but things have gotten really bad on this end. The men you warned me about found us. I've borrowed money to keep Elena safe and to move us, but it's not enough. They know who she is. They know who her real father is.

For her sake, please help us.

Antonio”

My hands trembled as I read the letter again. Real father? What was he talking about?

The sudden pounding on the door made me jump. I froze, holding the letter to my chest protectively. 

"Elena Moretti! Open this door right now!" a harsh male voice demanded.

More pounding followed. It was so hard that the cheap door frame shook.

"We know you're in there!” the voice called out again. “Your father's debt doesn't disappear just because he did!"

I scrambled to my feet, rushing to lock the flimsy chain on the door. 

"I don't know anything about any debt!" I shouted back. My voice was breaking badly now.

The sound of harsh male laughter came from the other side of the door. "That’s not our problem, pretty girl. But we can work something out if you're really friendly." His tone sounded suggestive and bile rose in my throat.

The door suddenly splintered as someone kicked it. I screamed as I ran to the bathroom. It was the only room with a lock that might hold. I slammed the door and quickly locked it just as I heard them break in.

"Search the place," a deep voice commanded. "Find anything valuable."

I sank to the floor, clutching my phone and my father's letter to my chest. I could hear them tearing through our apartment, breaking things, and cursing as they found nothing worth taking.

"Where's the girl?" one of them asked.

"In the bathroom, probably. Let’s leave her for now. Drew wants us back as soon as possible. We'll give her a day to come up with something."

Finally, after what seemed like hours, I heard the front door slam shut. I waited another twenty minutes before I dared to leave the bathroom.

Then I surveyed the mess the men had left behind. The entire apartment was destroyed. All the furniture had been overturned, the drawers had been completely emptied, and even the few framed photos we had were now smashed on the floor.

I was trembling so hard right now that I could barely think. I stared again at the letter in my hand, then at my phone. I had no one to call. I had no family, no close friends, and no money.

But I something. I had an address in Milan, Italy. My mother's address.

With shaking hands, I composed an email on my phone as best as I could.

“Isabella,

You don't know me anymore, but I'm your daughter, Elena. Dad died three days ago. There are men here demanding money he supposedly owed, and threatening me. I found a letter Dad wrote to you but he never sent. He mentioned men you warned him about. Please, if you're reading this, I need help. I have nowhere else to go.

Elena”

I hit send before I could change my mind, then I sank onto the floor among the wreckage that was now my life.

***

Three whole days passed after my father’s funeral. I didn't leave the apartment for once. I barely even slept. Every sound made me jump. I used the last of my money to order some cheap food from the corner store. Then I continued to wait. For what, I wasn't sure. Maybe for those men to return. Maybe for some miracle to happen.

Then a few days later, the long-awaited miracle came in the form of an email notification.

“Elena,

A car will pick you up tomorrow at 9 AM. Pack whatever you wish to bring. A private jet will be waiting at the airport. It will bring you to Milan. Everything will be taken care of.

Isabella”

I read the email more times than I could count, hardly believing the words it contained. A private jet? What kind of life had my mother built without us?

I packed quickly. I took some clothes and other personal things, the few photos I had of my father, and his letter. There wasn't much else worth saving.

***

The next morning, I waited by the front window of the apartment, watching the street for anything unusual. At exactly 9 AM, a sleek black SUV pulled up in front of the building. A tall man in a suit stepped out and scanned the street before he approached the entrance.

I grabbed my bags and hurried downstairs, but as I stepped outside, I froze. Across the street, I spotted them: the same men who had ransacked my apartment. They were watching the building from a parked car.

The suited driver saw my hesitation and followed my gaze. His expression hardened just before he spoke.

"Miss Moretti? I'm Paolo, sent by Mrs. De Luca. We need to leave immediately."

Mrs. De Luca? So she wasn’t Moretti anymore?

Before I could ask, he took my bags and guided me quickly to the car. As we pulled away, I saw the men getting out of their vehicle, their faces twisted with anger.

"Who are those men?" Paolo asked. His voice was tense as he drove.

"They came to my apartment demanding some money that my father supposedly owed," I replied.

His jaw tightened. "Did they tell you who they work for?"

"Someone named Drew, I think."

Paolo's knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. "They’re from the Bianchi family," he muttered, pulling out his phone. He spoke rapidly in Italian, but it was too fast for me to follow with my limited knowledge of the language.

When we got to the airport, I saw a sleek private jet waiting on the tarmac.

"Miss Moretti," Paolo said as he opened my door, "when you arrive in Milan, things will be... different from what you're used to. Your mother's household operates under strict protocols. Just do as you're told, and you'll be totally fine."

The way he said it sent a chill down my spine. I was immediately curious.

"What do you mean? What kind of household is it?"

Paolo glanced around nervously before he spoke. "That's not for me to explain, Miss. But know this: you're entering a different world now. The De Luca family is not to be trifled with, so you have to be careful at all times."

He escorted me to the plane, handed my bags to the attendant, and gave me a stiff nod before turning away.

As I climbed the steps to the jet, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was making a terrible mistake. But with those men after me and nowhere else to go, what choice did I have?

I didn't know then that I was trading one danger for something far worse, or that the name De Luca would soon make my blood run cold.

ELENA

The private jet touched down with barely a bump. Through the window, I watched Milan bathed in golden sunset light as the city glowed like something from a postcard. It really was nothing like the industrial neighborhood where I'd grown up in America.

The flight attendant gave me a practiced smile as she spoke. "Welcome to Milan, Miss Moretti. There's someone waiting for you."

My legs felt stiff as I descended the stairs to the tarmac. A black SUV was waiting nearby, and beside it stood a man who looked more like a wall than a person. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a neck that was as thick as my thigh. His black suit strained against his muscles, and dark sunglasses covered his eyes despite the fading daylight.

He stepped forward as I approached. "Miss Moretti. I'm Franco, your security detail." His voice was deep, and there was no hint of warmth or welcome in it.

"My... security detail?" I asked, clutching my small bag tighter to myself.