That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia (Accidental)

Chapter 47

M y mother’s smile widens, relishing the chaos she’s caused in the room. The heads of families who attended her funeral are reeling, trying to process the woman who’s just walked in—alive, after twenty years of being presumed dead. It’s clear she’s enjoying this moment, watching them squirm. She looks at me, her gaze cold but pleased.

“Well, well, Delaney,” she says, her voice silk-smooth, almost condescending. “What a lovely woman you’ve become.”

I swallow down my temper, my heartbeat accelerating. This isn’t the first time I’ve been face-to-face with her—not really. But it feels like the first time. I’ve spent years believing she was gone, buried under a sea of repressed memories. But now, after last night, the truth is as sharp as glass, and I’m not the little girl staring at her reflection anymore.

“No thanks to you,” I respond, my voice steady but carrying the weight of everything I’ll never be able to say.

She raises her wineglass, clearly expecting someone to serve her.

Just like the mystery hand I watched emerge from the shadows at Enzo’s club in Butte. Those red talon nails and gold rings are what connected all the dots for me last night. I felt the weight of that woman’s gaze staring at me from the dark booth, and it’s just as heavy now.

“Serve yourself,” I tell her, my voice sharp and decisive. “No one here will be doing your bidding.”

For a moment, I see a flicker of something—maybe surprise, maybe offense—but she hides it quickly. She’s used to getting what she wants, used to commanding the room, and it bothers her that I’m not playing along.

She stands, walking to the table behind her. Uncorking a bottle of port, she pours herself a generous glass with careful deliberation. The silence in the room stretches, everyone waiting as our family drama unfolds.

“Is this any way to treat your mother after twenty years missing at sea?” she asks, taking a sip, her tone dripping with faux sweetness.

“Missing?” I repeat, the disbelief clear in my voice. “That’s an interesting way to put it for someone who faked her death for two decades.”

She scoffs at my words, as if she’s not used to people questioning her. With a flick of her wrist, she waves away the accusation like it’s nothing. “Being the leader of a mafia family requires sacrifices you could never understand, Delaney.”

I take a deep breath, my resolve hardening. “You’re right,” I reply, my voice cutting through the tension. “I don’t understand. But I’m starting to.”

The tension in the room grows thick, every set of eyes on me as Stella raises an eyebrow over the rim of her wineglass. She takes another slow sip, savoring the control she thinks she still holds.

“Giuseppe,” she says, her voice smooth and dangerous, “since I am still Mrs. Caputo, despite your... widower’s thoughts, it is my right to inherit my late-husband’s estate, not my daughter’s.”

The air in the room shifts. Every eye turns to Giuseppe Thomas, waiting for confirmation. He looks to Stella, then to me, and nods slowly. “That is correct,” he says, his voice even.

The room murmurs with speculation, the gossip rising as events no one could have predicted unfold like a stage play.

I raise my hand, cutting through the whispers. “Question, Mr. Thomas,” I say, my voice strong. “I believe there is a clause in the will stating one cannot inherit the estate of someone they murdered. Is that correct?”

The tension in the room becomes a heavy fog. All eyes snap to me, and then quickly to Stella. She keeps her face neutral, the facade still in place, but the air is charged.

Gasps ripple through the gathered families.

Giuseppe’s face doesn’t waver. He nods again. “That is also correct,” he confirms, his voice tinged with an unspoken understanding of the gravity of the situation.

My mother’s lips curl into a cold smile, one that doesn’t reach her eyes. She tilts her head slightly, as if amused by my boldness. Her laugh echoes in the room, hollow, sharp, and full of malice.

“My husband’s death was ruled a heart attack,” she says, her tone unbothered. “There was no evidence of foul play.”

“Well, to be factually correct, there was evidence—lots of it. It was just... removed.”

I stand, grabbing my wineglass and walking slowly toward her end of the table, my eyes never leaving hers. Several of her guards shift nervously which makes Jax and Enzo shift.

Stella holds her hand out to her guards, quieting them down.

“Funny how that works,” I say, my voice calm but edged with something darker, as I take a sip.

Stella’s face falters for only a second, but I catch it. Just a flicker of panic behind that polished mask.

“Next time you hire a hacker to erase video footage of you committing—a murder,” I draw out the word deliberately, “ma-a-a-ybe make sure they actually, you know, delete it. Hackers like to keep insurance policies on their clients... especially the really shitty ones.”

I pause for a moment, standing just behind Johnny Boy, watching her squirm ever so slightly before I cut my eyes to him. “Get the fuck up,” I deadpan, and he all but teleports out of his chair to stand along the back wall. I lift myself onto the table, sitting with one leg crossed over the other as my dress cascades to either side. I rest my wrist over my knee, swirling my wineglass lazily.

“There’s this thing hackers do that’s really fun. It’s called a 'dead man’s chest.' Very old-school pirates, and I’m here for it.”

The words hang in the air like a warning. Stella knows exactly what I’m talking about, and I can see the growing unease in her eyes.

“If that hacker were to ever be betrayed by said shitty client,” I continue, “all their dirty little secrets would spill for everyone to see.”

I smile at her sweetly, watching the tension mount within her. “Or if a better hacker beats them to death and then breaks open–everything they ever touched.” She swallows hard, not sure if I’m bluffing.

“Oh, I get it. You think this is a bluff.” I nod, lacing every word with sarcasm and disdain. “I can understand that. Well, show of hands, everyone.” I hop off the table, looking to the guests. “Who wants to watch footage of my mother killing my father?”

I raise my hand, glancing around for others.

Francesca raises hers tentatively, looking around to see if anyone else joins her. They seem unsure whether I’m serious.

“Ah, Luca, see that. The Queen wants to see the footage, so… we’ve got to play it.”

“This is getting good,” Francesca whispers to the leader of the Russian Bratva, who looks at my mother’s guards behind him with malice. Maybe we should have served popcorn instead of wine.

“Luca, play the clip,” I say with a calmness that contrasts sharply with the heat running through my veins.

Jax snickers softly, and I narrow my eyes at him. That’s exactly what he said to Luca the morning we reunited over breakfast—you know, when they played that clip of me faking an orgasm with... Malachi? No, wait. Marvin?

Luca leans over with a smirk. “Mark,” he mouths, reminding me of the poor guy’s name.

With that, he presses a button on a remote control in his hand. I keep my eyes trained on Stella, the monster whose womb I had the misfortune of being born from.

Above us, recessed television screens slowly descend from the ceiling, and the lights dim. The room falls into a hushed silence as the screens flicker to life, and everyone holds their breath as the black-and-white video footage starts to play.