The Orphan and the Mafia Princess

Prologue

POV: Emily Stonebrook (this time it's the whole story narrated by one person)

Another morning, another bruise.

I didn't even see who did it. Just felt the sharp smack of a locker slamming shut behind me—loud enough to echo through the hallway, quiet enough to be ignored like always. The metal thudded against my side, and I let out a breath. Not a cry. Not a scream. Just... air.

Northvale High wasn't made for girls like me.

It was made for the golden ones—loud, beautiful, rich.

The kind who ruled the cafeteria with lip gloss and locker combos.

Me? I was the background noise. The nerd.

The orphan. The invisible punching bag with a cracked pair of glasses and a hoodie two sizes too big.

They liked to remind me.

"Oops," a girl sneered behind me, her voice fake-sweet. "Didn't see you there, Ratgirl."

Someone else snickered, and another hand shoved my backpack off my shoulder. It hit the floor with a dull thud, books spilling out like I was some kind of cartoon. My knees hit tile when I knelt to pick it up, but I didn't complain. I never did.

Complaining never helped.

I stuffed my books back in. Math. Physics.

Advanced CompSci. Things that made me feel like I mattered, even if no one else agreed.

My fingers grazed the little notebook I always carried—worn edges, scrawled formulas, and sketches of things no one would ever believe I built. Not that I'd show them. Not yet.

The bell rang, slicing through the laughter. Everyone scattered like nothing happened, and I finally stood, brushing imaginary dirt off my jeans. My locker creaked open after a few hard tries. Someone had bent the hinges again. Classic.

I caught my reflection in the tiny mirror I'd taped inside—brown eyes tired, hair pulled into a loose braid, cheeks hollow from skipping lunch three days in a row. My lip was split from last week, but it was healing. Mostly.

I touched it. Still tender.

I wasn't scared of them. Not really. You get used to pain when you've been alone long enough. When the system passes you around like a hot potato until you stop expecting anyone to stay. When the word "home" just means a bed you'll forget in a year.

The thing about being broken is—eventually, you stop feeling it.

I closed the locker slowly, not bothering to lock it. No point. They'd break in anyway.

And then I turned.

And she was there.

Valentina Vercetti.

Leaning against the lockers like she owned the whole hallway. Which, to be fair, she kind of did. Black leather jacket. Silver rings on her fingers. Jet-black hair, loose today. Her eyes locked on mine for half a second—cold, unreadable.

She didn't say a word. Just raised one perfectly sculpted brow, turned, and walked away.

The hallway fell dead silent in her wake.

I didn't move. Didn't blink.

Because in that one look, I saw something.

She had eyes like a storm—dangerous, sharp, and full of secrets.

And I had a feeling I was going to drown in them.

I didn't even get two steps before I heard her voice.

"Aw. You dropped your crown, nerd."

Laughter exploded around me like fireworks—ugly, sharp, unrelenting. I didn't need to look to know who said it.

Valentina Vercetti.

Of course.

I turned anyway, slow, like maybe this time it wouldn't be me. Maybe this time, she was making someone else her target.

But no. Her lips curled into a smirk that could slice through skin. The kind of look that made people feel like less than dirt.

She strutted toward me, goons in tow—three girls, dressed like they were auditioning for a teen mafia movie. Tight skirts. Gold chains. Perfect eyeliner. Empty eyes.

And there I was—hoodie, backpack strap barely hanging on, glasses slightly cracked, and heart crawling further into my chest like it wanted to vanish entirely.

Valentina circled me once, like a lion sizing up her prey.

"She doesn't even fight back," one of them giggled. "It's like bullying a wet towel."

Another added, "She probably likes it."

That one stung more than it should've.

Valentina didn't say anything for a second. Just stared at me.

Her eyes were empty. No empathy. No humanity. Just cold.

And then—

She yanked my notebook from my hand.

"Is this your little diary?" she asked, flipping through the pages without care. "What are these? Nerd formulas? Oh my god—did she invent a boyfriend in code or something?"

More laughter.

She tore a page out. Folded it. Shoved it in my pocket like a joke.

"Keep that. For your funeral speech."

And I just stood there.

Silent.

Because what else was I supposed to do?

They say if you ignore bullies, they'll stop.

Whoever said that never met Valentina Vercetti.

She stepped closer, almost whispering now. I could feel the heat of her breath against my ear.

"No one's ever gonna want you," she said, voice soft like poison. "Not with that face. Not with that... nothing."

I didn't flinch. I didn't cry.

I just nodded.

And they laughed again, walking off like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.

The notebook lay on the ground behind me, pages fluttering in the breeze from the hallway AC.

I picked it up slowly. Pressed the pages flat. And walked.

Not fast. Not slow.

Just... walked.

Because crying in the hallway only gave them more fuel. And because if I ran—I'd prove her right.

Valentina Vercetti had everything.

Money. Power. Fear. Attention.

And I was just the orphan she crushed under her heel on the way to class.

But little did she know...

She is just another pawn in a chessboard.

A beautiful pawn which holds many secrets inside it

Like..

Let me explain it like this...

Valentina is the pawn that reaches the other side of the board and doesn't just become a queen—

she becomes a weapon.

The kind of pawn no one watches closely because they're too focused on the kings and bishops and rooks. But that's the mistake. Because she's the most underestimated piece—just like me.

She plays the role of a pawn perfectly. Obedient. Controlled. In the front line.

Everyone sees her as the mafia heir—a pawn placed by her father to carry out legacy and destruction.

But here's the truth:

She's a pawn carrying poison.

Every step she takes is calculated rage masked in beauty.

Every smile is a bluff. Every laugh is a scream swallowed in silence.

She's not loyal to the king—she is the storm hiding in line with soldiers, waiting for the moment she can burn the entire board and rewrite the game.

And deep inside?

There's a girl who doesn't wanna play chess at all.

She just wants someone to see her—not as a pawn. Not as a Vercetti.

But as Valentina.

And guess what?

That person?

It's the girl she bullies.

You'll see what I mean.

The final bell rang like a mercy kill.

I didn't go out the front. No one notices when I vanish anyway. I slipped through the back hallways, the ones that always smelled like dust and disappointment, and pushed open the door to the girls' bathroom.

It was quiet. For once.

Until it wasn't.

Three girls walked in. More giggles. More shoves. Same script, different scene.

"She's still here?" one snorted. "Is she waiting for a pity award or something?"

Someone hit the back of my head—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind me they could.

I didn't respond. I didn't even look up. I just waited for them to get bored.

They always do.

Eventually, the door creaked again and silence took their place.

I exhaled. Alone, finally.

My reflection stared back at me, tired eyes behind scratched lenses.

This is where I switch.

In here, I can shed the weak girl uniform. The one everyone's used to pushing around.

I pulled open my bag and reached for the folded pink bundle inside.

Latex. Tight. Shiny. Unapologetic.

The waitress uniform from Sweet Peaches Diner. Custom-made to make people stare and tips pour. I hated it. I hated how well it worked. But it kept the act going—Emily Stonebrook, the poor orphan working every night to survive.

I peeled off the school hoodie and folded my skirt. No one was here. No one would know.

Until I felt it.

That feeling.

Eyes.

I froze, heart stuttering.

I turned around—

And there she was.

Valentina Vercetti.

Frozen mid-step at the door.

Mouth slightly open.

Eyes wide.

Face red.

Her gaze wasn't on my face.

It was locked on my—

Yeah. Ass.

Latex hugs in all the right places.

I reached for my apron slowly, trying to not make it worse, but it didn't help. Her eyes tracked every movement like she wasn't even in control anymore.

And then—she tried to speak.

'Tried' is the keyword used here.

"Wha—um—you—wait—you're—why are you—" she sputtered, her voice glitching like a broken robot.

I tilted my head.

"You good?" I asked, casual, calm, as I tied my apron.

Her eyes snapped to mine, but her brain was still short-circuiting.

"Y-You're—maid—latex—what is happening—this is illegal—stop existing—uh—I mean—no—wait—"

She slapped a hand over her face and immediately turned around, practically slamming into the stall door behind her like she forgot how walking worked.

I blinked.

She didn't move.

She was just... standing there.

Frozen.

"I'm late for work," I said quietly, brushing past her.

And as I walked by, I swear—

I heard her whisper to herself,

"...why is she hot..."

The walk to Sweet Peaches was always a little longer after sundown.

Most of the streetlights flickered. Some didn't work at all. And the shortcut behind the plaza—yeah, that was always a gamble.

I usually took the long way.

But tonight? I was already late. The diner manager was gonna yell at me again like I was his emotional support punching bag.

So I cut through the alley.

Pink latex heels clacking against concrete. Bag slung over my shoulder. Head down.

And then I heard them.

Laughter.

Male. Ugly.

I glanced up. Four of them.

Blocking the exit.

My stomach dropped, but I didn't turn around.

"Damn," one of them whistled, stepping closer. "Ain't you the little schoolgirl maid I seen walkin' around here before?"

The others snickered. I didn't reply.

"C'mon, girlie," another sneered. "Where you headed dressed like that? You lookin' for attention, yeah?"

They moved fast.

Surrounding me.

My back hit the wall. I felt the brick through my uniform.

Disgust rolled off them like cologne. Greasy smiles. Beer on their breath.

"You don't gotta be scared," one of them grinned, reaching for my cheek. "We just wanna—"

"Don't," I warned, voice low.

But they laughed harder.

And then—

One grabbed my wrist.

The tallest one stepped in front of me. Breath hot. Fingers on my waist.

"You think you're too good for us, huh? That tight little outfit—"

BANG.

He collapsed before the sentence even finished.

Blood sprayed across the wall.

The other men screamed.

I didn't move. I couldn't.

The body hit the ground with a sickening thud.

Silence fell like a bomb.

My eyes snapped toward the sound of the gunshot—

But all I saw was a shadow.

Tall. Calm. Unmoving.

Gun still raised.

And just like that—

They vanished.

Leaving the others to run. Leaving me frozen. Shaking. Heart pounding.

And a corpse at my feet.

Who shot him?