Chapter 2 Mia
Ten days ago in Winter Haven, Colorado
I ’ve lost track of how many funerals I’ve been to, but it never gets any easier. It seems like my entire life has been divided between weekends of weddings and funerals—mostly for people my father would call family . And we show up because of that one word. “Family.” At the end of the day, it’s just to show respect.
But it’s the funerals that have always stuck with me, even when I didn’t know the deceased personally. In our world, life always ends too early. None of the guests of honor live past forty. Most of them don’t even make it to thirty—young men who could have made something of themselves, if this life hadn’t taken that chance from them.
The outside world sees the mafia as some romantic vision of money, cigars, and “getting even.” In reality, there’s nothing but death in its wake. The lucky ones are men like my father, who lived long enough to become the boss of the Vitale family. Those who sit high enough can give orders and pretend the blood doesn’t touch them.
My brother Marco wasn’t so lucky.
For years, the deceased were always “somebody’s somebody.” I didn’t grieve because I didn’t know them. But now I do, and now that it’s my turn to feel that loss, I might just break. Not from grief, but from the anger boiling underneath it.
Marco was brilliant, ruthless—my father’s strategist, the one who held power and territory together for him, a wall that kept the empire intact. He knew the risks, but like everyone else in this life, he thought he was untouchable. Immortal. No one joins this world believing it will happen to them.
Yet here I am, clenching my jaw as I listen to speech after speech in this Catholic church filled with people I’ve seen at the same weddings and funerals all my life. Faces I recognize but couldn’t name if my life depended on it.
“Don’t worry,” my eldest brother Dante whispers, his warm hand closing over mine. “We’ll avenge him. Don’t you worry.”
“Fucking bastards,” I manage to choke out, earning a quick squeeze from him.
I never liked learning from my father, but one thing he did teach me: sadness is a luxury. Anger, though? Anger is useful. Depression keeps you stuck; spite gets the job done. And Dante knows that, too. When he says “we,” he means both of us. As his top negotiator, I’m already in this, like it or not.
“Thursday, Mia. Tomorrow.” Dante’s voice is firm, and it pulls me back as we step through the doors of the Vitale mansion.
Being the daughter—and now sister—of a mafia boss was never supposed to mean I’d be in the thick of it. Traditionally, women aren’t allowed within the inner workings, not in the world we come from. But my father never cared for tradition, and Dante’s following in his footsteps.
That’s what makes him so dangerous—predictable men can be handled. But Dante? He’s unpredictable, without boundaries or limits. With him, nothing is off the table. Not even pulling me into the dirty dealings that oil the wheels of the Vitale empire.
“Just give me some time,” I plead. “We just buried Marco.” I want to lose myself in my law school assignments, to hide in a world that isn’t tainted by this... madness.
But Dante stops me, his hand on my arm, blocking my path up the grand staircase. “You know I need you now more than ever,” he says, his tone hard.
I grit my teeth. “Can we at least let the dirt settle on Marco’s grave before you ask me to attend another damn sit-down?”
“The other families are going to see this as a moment of weakness, a chance to cash in,” he snaps, his voice almost a hiss. “I refuse to let them think that. As far as anyone else knows, it’s business as usual.”
It’s always about appearances, about power. To Dante, winning is everything. He doesn’t care who he loses along the way. He learned that from our father, and he’s doubling down, determined to be the most powerful Vitale boss in history. Ruthless, relentless—a man willing to sacrifice anything, and anyone, to win.
“I’m not saying I’m walking out,” I shoot back, though the truth is, I want to. I want to walk away and never look back.
“Then what are you saying?”
“I just need time, okay? I’m not some cold-hearted family boss like you. I’m human, Dante. Just give me a moment to breathe.”
“Mimi.” His tone softens, just slightly, as he uses the nickname he and Marco used when we were kids. “You are a Vitale, and I expect you to step in when I ask you to.”
He holds my gaze, his icy blue eyes—the same shade as mine—piercing and unyielding. There’s a sternness in them, but something else flickers there too, something that makes him sigh, his shoulders relaxing just a little.
“Talk to me. You’ve done these deals a dozen times before. You’re a natural at it.”
I exhale, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m tired, Dante. Tired of the dirty dealings, the lies, the cheating... all of it.” But I don’t dare voice the word that haunts me. Death. The scent of it still lingers around me, like burnt ash clinging to the walls of this house.
He watches me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he steps forward, grabbing my shoulders, his gaze intense.
“You’re not going to last long if you keep fighting what we do.”
My eyes close, and I feel a single tear slip down my cheek. I hate showing weakness, hate that he can see just how fragile I feel. But I can’t help it—not when every part of me is fighting to escape this life, even as it drags me down.
Dante sighs, his grip loosening. “Fine. One week. That’s it. Then I need you back.”
And with that, he turns away, heading up the stairs toward his office—the war room, as I call it. It was our father’s old office, where he decided who would live, who would die, and what message their death would send. Mafia men love their messages. Every life taken, every body disposed of, is a message to someone.
“I’ll be there,” I whisper, the words almost choking me as they hang in the empty room.
But as I watch Dante disappear down the hall, a dark realization settles in my chest. In this life, there is no end, no escape. No matter how far I run, there will always be another message waiting to be sent.