I should’ve walked away years ago. Eleven years — Eleven goddamn years — I spent raising Clyde and Tyler, the twin sons of Joachim Mancini, the cold-hearted mafia don who once promised me the world.

I was supposed to be his wife. I was supposed to be the Queen of the Mancini. But dreams don’t mean shit in our world. Not after the car crash that ruined my life. Not after Serafina, Joachim’s ‘perfect’ mistress, made sure I wouldn’t stand at that altar.

While I lay broken, comatose and stitched up in a hospital bed, Joachim married her instead. Serafina — my sister-in-law. Yes. My own brother’s widow.

They said Serafina was barren. After years of miscarriages, years of prayers that rotted on cold lips, she could never carry life inside her.

But miracles happen, they whispered. Seven months after my accident, right on cue, Serafina bloomed. A growing belly. Glowing cheeks. Elaborate baby showers.

And when she finally ‘gave birth’ to two healthy twin boys, the world rejoiced. Joachim stood by her side, proud and powerful, cradling the ‘miracles’ the Mancini bloodline had so desperately needed.

Only it wasn’t a miracle.

It was theft.

I was seven months pregnant the night of the accident that was orchestrated by Serafina. I was the one carrying those boys.

While I lay in a coma, they cut my sons from my body with scalpels and lies. Hid them away in private clinics. Faked hospital records. Bought silence with blood money.

Serafina never carried those babies.

She just wore the lie like a crown. And then, just as suddenly as she appeared in my life, she vanished. Serafina died after two years. A car crash. Quick. Clean. Convenient.

No body to bury. Closed casket. Joachim didn’t grieve. Not really. He just shifted the narrative again — a grieving widower with two sons to raise.

When I woke up, scarred, barren, empty, Joachim stood over me with blood on his hands and a debt in his eyes.

"Raise them," he said. "Raise them like they’re yours."

Because they were mine.

I wiped their tears. I taught them to shoot, to pray, to lie with clean faces and bloody hands. I raised Clyde and Tyler under the very roof of the men who stole my life.

And how did they repay me? By carving out my heart with the same hands I taught them to use.

The pain didn't start tonight.

It started six years ago, when they were just three — small, feverish, and burning up in the hospital.I wasn’t even allowed inside. Only Joachim, they said.

So I sat in the hallway like a ghost, staring through the glass at two little boys who looked too much like the pieces of me I thought I had buried.

A nurse passing by whispered under her breath, "It's strange. They don't look much like Serafina but look like her."

Something inside me snapped. Without thinking, I pulled a favor. Paid a price I didn’t have. And when the DNA results came in, the paper nearly slipped from my trembling hands.

99.99% probability.

Clyde and Tyler were mine.

My sons.

I confronted Joachim that same night, bursting into his office like a storm barely caged.

"They're mine," I gasped, holding out the papers like a weapon. "Clyde and Tyler — they’re my children."

Joachim didn’t even lift his eyes from his glass. He swirled his whiskey lazily, as if I were a particularly boring insect buzzing in his ear.

"Yeah," he said, finally glancing up, a smirk curling at his lips. "Yours. But who cares?"

My hands curled into fists. "I care! They're mine — not Serafina’s! You stole them from me and let the world—”

He chuckled, a low, dead sound.

"Let the world believe what it wants. Serafina gave the Mancini twins a story people like better. A perfect tragedy."

He leaned back in his leather chair, sipping slow.

"Quit digging into the past, cara mia. You're their mother now. You lived with me, with them. I took you again. Isn't that what you wanted?" His eyes gleamed. "Aren't you... happy?"

Happy.

The word slapped harder than any fist. I stood there, trembling with rage and heartbreak, knowing that even the truth wouldn’t set me free.

And so I stayed. For them. For my boys. Even when they looked at me with growing cruelty.

Even when they whispered that I was the reason their ‘real mother’ was dead.

At first, it was small things. Glares. Mocking laughter. Clyde hiding my shoes. Tyler tearing up my favorite books. But year after year, their hatred grew sharper, darker.

Until tonight.

***

Their thirteenth birthday.

I held a small velvet box to my chest as I walked into the grand Mancini dining room, where wolves disguised as men laughed and drank under the golden chandeliers. At the head of the table sat Joachim, swirling his whiskey like always.

The twins sat together, dressed in silk shirts and dark slacks, already more vicious than half the soldiers in the room.

I cleared my throat.

No one stopped talking.

No one looked. Still, I forced a smile and walked forward, my heart pounding against my ribs.

"Clyde. Tyler," I said softly, stopping in front of them. "I made something for you. For your birthday."

They turned slowly. Two pairs of black, bottomless eyes fixed on me. I knelt down, offering the small box with trembling hands.

"I know..." My voice caught. "I know I'm not your real mother in the way you want. But I love you. I always have."

Clyde sneered.

Tyler's lip curled.

"Yeah?" Clyde said loudly, his voice thick with mockery. "You love us? Even after you killed her?"

My heart dropped into my stomach.

"I didn't—" I started, but Tyler cut me off.

"You think some shiny junk makes up for being a rat?"

He snatched the box from my hands, ripped it open, and pulled out the gold pocket watch inside.

For a heartbeat, he actually paused — the engraving catching his eye — but then he laughed, cruel and cold.

"This?" Clyde barked, holding the watch up high. "This is trash."

Before I could move, he hurled it across the room. The watch smashed into the roaring fireplace, gold melting instantly with a sick hiss.

The men roared with laughter.

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, refusing to let the tears fall.

"It's not about gifts," I whispered, barely audible over the cruel laughter. "It's about family. About love."

"Love?" Tyler said, standing on his chair, pointing at me like a general condemning a traitor. "You think we want your love, rat?"

Clyde reached into the whiskey glass beside Joachim’s plate. He fished out the Mancini family ring, glowing red-hot from the alcohol and fire.

"Enemies don’t cry, right, Tyler?" he said, voice light as a child's.

"Nope," Tyler agreed, grinning. "They scream."

Before I could react, Clyde grabbed my wrist and slammed my hand down onto the heavy table. The burning ring pressed into my flesh with a sickening sizzle. The pain was nuclear. White-hot. Searing straight to the bone. But I didn’t scream. I clamped my mouth shut so hard I tasted the iron tang of my own blood.

Clyde leaned close, "You’ll never be one of us, rat," he murmured sweetly. "You're just the stray my father pitied."

"And when you die," Tyler added, smiling wide and cruel, "we’ll tell everyone you begged for it."

The room exploded with laughter again. Men clapping. Whistles. Joachim — my husband, my betrayer — sipping his drink in silent approval.

That was when something inside me finally, completely shattered. It didn’t matter how many nights I stayed up praying for them. How much blood I spilled protecting them. How many lies I swallowed for their sake.

I would always be the outsider. The joke. The rat. But not for long.

***

Later that night, after they had finished laughing and left me crumpled and broken, I stumbled back to my bedroom.

I peeled away the burned skin, gasping softly, and stared at the twisted scar left behind.

It looked like a broken, ruined crown.

I pressed my mutilated hand against the cold glass of the mirror, staring into my own haunted eyes.

"I’m leaving the Mancini," I whispered to the cracked reflection. "Alive, if I can."

And this time, no vow, no blood debt, no broken boy would stop me.

***

The morning sunlight hit my face, but it felt cold.

Numb. I had already made my call — Damien would be here by midnight to take me away.

I was finally walking away from Joachim. From this cursed house. From this cursed life.

Pulling my coat tighter, I made my way to the east balcony, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. I was ready to tell him. Ready to end this nightmare and ask for the divorce.

But life… Life had a funny way of kicking you in the teeth when you least expected it.

Because there he was. Joachim Mancini, the man I once worshiped like a god, kneeling on one knee. Diamond ring glittering like betrayal under the morning sun.

And in front of him — Bianca.

Bianca Peters.

The new family consigliere.

The sadist who once broke a man’s hand just because he spoke out of turn.

Petals were falling around them like a twisted fairy tale. Bodyguards clapped. The twins were laughing and shouting.

"Say yes, Bianca!"

"Be our real mama!"

"We don't want that boring witch anymore!"

I froze. The wind slapped my face.

Or maybe it was just reality finally waking me up.

Bianca laughed, the sound sharp like broken glass.

“Yes, Joachim. A thousand times yes.”

I stepped forward, slow. I clapped my hands — sharp, mocking — slicing through their fake little fairytale like a blade.

The sound cut the air.

Everyone turned.

Joachim’s smile dropped the second he saw me.

“Valeria—” he started, voice low, dangerous.

“Don’t stop on my account,” I said, voice sweet enough to rot teeth.

“Congratulations to the happy couple.”

Joachim’s jaw ticked. His dark eyes flashed.

Before he could growl something back, Clyde came running. For a second, one stupid, fragile second… my heart lifted. Maybe he remembered. Maybe—

But the hope died ugly when I saw what he was holding.

The photo.

The only thing I had left.

The last picture of me and my mother — the one I managed to save after they burned the whole album a few months ago.

My breath hitched.

"Give it back, Clyde," I said, voice low, shaking.

He just smirked, a carbon copy of his father.

"Why? It's trash," he said. "Just like you."

And then, he tossed it.

Straight into the fire pit burning beside the balcony.

The heat had already destroyed it — the ink melted, the image warped into black ash.

My mother’s smile… gone.

Gone forever.

I didn't dive. I didn’t scream. I just stood there… and shattered quietly. Behind me, they laughed.

Clyde. Tyler. Bianca’s syrup-thick chuckle.

Something inside me— fractured.

I turned, slow, the fire’s glow still dancing in my eyes.

“You little—” I started, stepping toward Clyde, but Joachim caught my arm mid-motion.

Joachim.

He yanked me back, grip tight. Iron.

"You’ve lost your fucking mind," he spat against my ear.

I looked at him — really looked. And for the first time, I saw it. Not the man I once loved. Just a tyrant in a tailored suit.

I smiled. Bright. Cold. Unbothered.

"Go ahead, Joachim," I said, voice shaking from rage and pain. "Lock me up. Chain me to the goddamn floor if you have to. But know this—" I stepped closer, flames crackling behind me.

"One day... I’ll be free. And when I am... I’ll tear your fucking kingdom down with my bare—”

"ENOUGH!" he barked.

The guests stared. The guards tried to pretend they weren't listening. Even the twins went silent, shocked by the venom in his voice.

“What kind of ungrateful woman embarrasses her Don like this?” Joachim growled into my ear, low enough only for me to hear.

"You’re dead to me, Valeria," Clyde whispered, just as cold.

I laughed. I laughed because if I didn’t, I would shatter into pieces right there.

"You have no idea," I muttered under my breath.

Then Bianca strutted up to me, that smug snake smile plastered on her face.

She placed her hand, her perfectly gel manicured, blood-red nails, on her stomach.

“Oh, by the way…” she said, voice dripping fake sweetness, "I'm pregnant. With Joachim’s heir."

The world spun. I swayed, but I refused to fall.

Not here. Not in front of these monsters.

I just smile.

“Then I’ll bury you right next to him.”

Joachim’s grip tightened until it felt like my bones would snap. "How dare you—"

“I WANT A DIVORCE.”

He frozen. He smiled. "No. You’ll stay," he hissed. "You’ll raise my sons. You’ll serve Bianca, my queen. And if you behave..." He leaned closer, his breath cold against my cheek. "Maybe I’ll let you live."

Tears burned my eyes, but I blinked them away.

I would not cry. Not for him.

Not for any of them.

Instead, I lifted my chin and smiled.

"Over my dead body," I whispered back. And for the first time in eleven years, I meant every word.

Packing my things was the only escape I had left. With every passing second, the air in the house felt heavier. Every corner held memories that should’ve been safe. But none of it mattered now.

I grabbed my suitcase from the bed and dragged it down the stairs, the weight of it grounding me in the reality of what was about to happen. I couldn’t leave fast enough. But just as I reached the front door, I heard her.

"Stop right there!"

Bianca.

Her voice cracked sharply through the air like a whip. She stood at the top of the stairs, all fake innocence wrapped in a trembling body. But her eyes—those wild, glassy eyes—gave her away.

"Running away?" she taunted, lips curling into a mockery of a smile. "What’s wrong, Valeria? Can't stand seeing the life you lost? The man you lost?"

I stared at her blankly, my heartbeat steady.

Nothing. No reaction.

Bianca descended the stairs in slow, predatory strides. "You know," she hissed, "Joachim didn’t even call your name last night. He called mine. Over and over and over..." She giggled, sickly sweet. "Begged me to give him a son."

I blinked once. That was it. Bianca faltered, confusion flickering across her face. She needed me to scream, cry, crumble. Instead, she got a statue.

That’s when she made her move.

She let out a sharp gasp, staggering forward. In one fluid, theatrical motion, she yanked a small knife from under her dress and stabbed herself against the blood patch she had sewn inside.

Blood bloomed instantly across her stomach, dark and dramatic. Her scream tore through the house.

"AHHHH! She stabbed me! SHE STABBED ME!" Bianca howled, collapsing onto the floor in a heap of fake agony.

I didn’t move. I just stood there, watching, dead-eyed. Footsteps thundered down the hall. Joachim shoved past his men, wild panic flashing in his eyes when he saw her.

"What the FUCK is happening?!" he bellowed.

"She—" Bianca sobbed, pointing a trembling finger at me, "SHE DID THIS! If you love me... punish her... or I swear I’ll never come back to you... I’ll take the baby and leave forever!"

Joachim’s face twisted with rage. He didn't even question it.

"Grab her!" he roared.

Hands clamped down on my arms, yanking me backward so hard the suitcase crashed to the floor.

"LET ME GO!" I shouted, struggling against them, my voice tearing from my throat. "I didn’t touch her! I didn’t TOUCH HER!"

But they didn’t listen. They never fucking listened.

"Take Bianca to the hospital!" Joachim barked. His men swarmed around her, lifting her delicately as if she were made of glass, while I was dragged like a criminal.

Bianca peeked over Joachim’s shoulder, her tear-soaked face twisted into a victorious smirk. I smiled coldly, finally giving her something—just not what she wanted.

"You'll choke on your own lies, Bianca," I said, voice calm and slicing through the chaos like a knife. "And when you do... remember you begged for it."

Her smile cracked.

Good.

I barely had time to breathe before it happened. CRACK. The slap came from nowhere — Joachim’s palm connecting with the side of my face so hard the world spun.

My head snapped sideways. A metallic taste flooded my mouth. Blood. I coughed once — sharp, involuntary — and spat red onto the marble floor. Silence ripped through the room.

Even Bianca flinched.

Joachim loomed over me, breathing hard, fists clenched like he wanted to hit me again.

"You're nothing," he growled, voice low and venomous.

"Nothing but a stain I should have wiped clean years ago."

I wiped the blood from my mouth with the back of my cuffed hands.

Smiled through the taste of iron and humiliation.

"This stain," I rasped, "is going to ruin you."

The cuffs bit into my wrists. I didn’t resist anymore. This wasn’t defeat. This was war. And it was just getting started.

***

The Mancini council, cold and unforgiving, sat before me. And then, my twins—Clyde and Tyler—stepped forward, swearing under oath that they’d seen me "trying to kill Bianca.” Their voices were firm, rehearsed. They lied with practiced ease, each word dripping with malice.

"You've crossed the line, Valeria," Joachim growled. "You're being dangerous. This is your punishment." His voice was colder than I’d ever heard it.

Before I could even process it, his men seized me—again. Dragged me down the halls like a carcass. Toward the underground vault. A place for traitors. A place no one returned from.

The door clanged shut behind me like the gates of a tomb. And then—darkness. Endless. Unforgiving.

Time melted. Hours? Days? It didn’t matter.

All I knew was the dark… and then—the sounds.

It began as a girl sobbing. Faint. Distant.

Then whispers layered over the cries.

Voices I couldn’t place. Some familiar. Some not.

All wrong.

Then came the chanting... low, guttural, like something demonic crawling up from hell.

It filled the air, slithered into my ears, under my skin.

I clutched my head, screaming for it to stop, but the vault only echoed the madness back at me, louder and louder until I couldn’t tell if it was real or if I was unraveling.

That’s when I heard footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

The lock turned. The door creaked open.

Clyde and Tyler.

Smiling like devils at the gates of hell.

"Look who’s stuck in the cage," Tyler sneered, his eyes shining with cruelty.

"You really thought you could run?" Clyde tilted his head, mocking, as if he were studying a rabid animal.

The lights flickered.

They didn’t speak for a second.

Then Tyler hit a button on the remote in his hand. The speakers shrieked with new sound: a little girl screaming “Mommy, please! Stop!”

Then laughter—my laughter—twisted and looped and played backward until it sounded inhuman.

The crying layered again. A thousand voices.

I backed into the corner, shaking.

"W-why are you doing this?" I gasped. “I’m... I'm your mother. Not Serafina. She stole you from me.”

They both paused.

And then Clyde burst out laughing.

Cruel. Cold. Unhinged.

"Our mother?" he spat, stepping forward.

"If you were our mother, I’d rather cut my own throat," Tyler added with a snarl. "What a fucking joke."

"Nice try, rat," Clyde sneered. "You really are losing it down here, huh?"

I blinked back tears. "I carried you—I named you. They changed your names when they took you, but I remember your real ones—"

"Shut the fuck up!" Clyde snapped, his voice cracking through the air like a whip. "You're not real. You're just the ghost we made up to test our tolerance for filth."

Tyler stepped closer, leaned down.

His breath was ice against my cheek. "If you ever say that shit again," he whispered, "I’ll make sure the next sound you hear is your own brain cracking."

They laughed again as they left.

The door didn’t lock. It was never locked.

They wanted this. They wanted me to run. A fresh, cruel game.

Gritting my teeth against the pain and terror, I launched myself forward. Rats clung to my legs, biting deep, but I didn’t care. I shoved the door open, half-falling into the hallway.

Blood dripped from my legs and arms.

My lungs burned.

My whole body shook.

But I didn’t stop. I staggered into the open courtyard—free for half a heartbeat. The gate was there. So close. I could almost taste freedom… then I saw them.

Clyde and Tyler.

Standing in front of the gate like statues, grinning as if they had all the time in the world.

"You really thought you could escape, didn’t you?" Clyde called out, voice dripping with mock pity.

Tyler hefted something from behind his back—a heavy-looking rifle, but not an ordinary one.

Not a real bullet gun.

No, they didn’t want me dead.

Not yet.

"You run, little mouse," Tyler sneered, aiming it casually.

"We’ll always catch you."

I stumbled, heart pounding so loud I couldn’t even hear my own breathing. But my body moved on instinct. One step. Another.

Closer.

Closer to the gate.

I almost made it.

Then—

THWIP.