Abigail
The Romano estate was lively that night, golden chandeliers glimmered over a long mahogany dining table, where the family gathered for Sunday dinner – an old tradition my father insisted on.
To outsiders, it looked like elegance—the clink of cutlery against plates, the quiet laughter, the aroma of roasted lamb and garlic. But to me who had grown up in these rooms, I knew the truth. Every smile was sharpened, every word carried a hidden edge.
"Family is loyalty," my father, Carlo Romano said, raising his glass of wine. His voice was sharp and commanding. "Without it, we're nothing." He added.
The men around the table murmured their agreement. I studied their faces and expressions. Don Vincenzo Morelli, the family's long-time ally, was smiling politely. My cousin Raphael kept his eyes low, but his hands tapped his glass in a rhythm that betrayed impatience.
I had learned to watch the hands. Men's mouths lied, but their hands told the truth.
"Abigail," Carlo turned his gaze on me suddenly. "You've been quiet."
I adjusted, brushing my long dark hair behind my ear. "I listen more than I talk, Dad. Isn't that what you taught me?"
The men chuckled, some with amusement others with disdain. Women weren't allowed to be at this table, not really. I was allowed because I was the only child.
Carlo nodded approvingly. He smiled at me and I could understand what he meant. He was pleased.
"But, you know…Abigail, you're not supposed to be seated here with us." Raphael said getting at me.
I caught on. "I know and that's why I'm minding my business." I was blunt and he noticed.
"Why don't you allow the little woman to have her peace," Don Vincenzo cut in sharply. I could read the pained expression on Raphael's face.
"You know if she were a man she would be ruling after her father." Gabrielle, a bearded man with a stout face, blurted out.
"And now that she isn't?" Raphael asked sharply, I could still feel resentment in his voice.
"I think we should let this issue die down." My father said, raising his fist.
I stared at him and he nodded. He was the only one supporting me in the midst of men. After Mom's death, he had brought me up all alone, taught me the Mafia ways, and had made me the woman I had become. Don Vincenzo had forced him to marry me out at the age of sixteen to Russell – one of his influential friends, but my father had stood his ground.
"Let's make a toast," My father said but before he could raise his glass, the room changed.
It started with a sound—A sharp pop. Then another.
Glass shattered. My father's head jerked back violently, a red stain across his shirt like spilled wine, I could see the hole in his head.
For a second, time froze. The chandelier shook above. My heart stopped.
Then chaos.
Men ran for cover, guns were pulled out, shouting in Italian. Plates and other glassware crashed to the floor. Someone screamed— I realized it was my own voice.
My father slumped sideways, his eyes still open, staring at nothing. Blood spread across the white tablecloth, dripping on the floor.
"Carlo!" Don Vincenzo screamed, but his tone wasn't of pain—it was of calculation.
Raphael's voice rose over the confusion: "It's an ambush! Everybody out!"
But I wasn't moved. I pressed my hands against the warm blood on my father's chest, my mind racing. Ambush? No. The shots had come from inside, not outside.
Someone at the table had betrayed my father.
My eyes darted across the room, I caught the glimpse of Don Vincenzo's smirk and I quickly marked it as concern, Marco's expression too, all the other men at the table already choosing sides with their facial expression.
And I, Abigail, the daughter whom none took seriously, was supposed to be the bait.
But as I sat there, with my father's blood soaked in my hands, I made myself a silent promise.
I would not mourn quietly, I would not obey the old rules of the Mafia and I would find the traitor that did this to my father, tear apart his allies, and claim everything they thought I couldn't lay my hands on.
My father had been wrong about one thing. Family wasn't loyalty. It was a weakness.
******
The gunfire had stopped, but the dining hall was filled with silence more chilling than the bullets.
My hands were still stained with my father's blood when Raphael barged into the room, his pistol raised, his eyes darting around.
"They're gone!" he barked at the bodyguards rushing in. "Whoever did this escaped."
"Escaped?" I snapped, standing up. My voice cut sharper than the broken pieces of glittering glasses on the floor.
"The windows weren't broken. The doors were guarded. Do you mean to tell me that ghosts pulled the trigger?"
Raphael's jaw tightened. He wasn't used to my tone in front of the men. He leaned close, his breath was hot and reeked of whiskey."
"Careful cugina. Now isn't the time for accusations."
I met his glare without blinking. "Oh, but it is." I turned to Don Vincenzo, who was cleaning a stain of blood on his sleeve, his expression was blank.
"Don Morelli, you've been in this family for years. Perfect timing, isn't it?"
The room was dead silent, and I could feel my heart beating loudly. No one dared speak against Vincenzo.
But the Don chuckled.
"You've got your father's fire burning in you, but fire can be out of control when it's not quickly quenched." He glared hard at me. " Be wise. Accusing me would not end well."
I wanted to scream at him, but Raphael cut me short.
"Enough!" He barked. "Carlo Romano is dead and the family needs a new leader. We'll call a meeting. Until then, I'll take command."
A murmur of agreement rose around the table. The men avoided my gaze, their loyalty already switching to the next man who promised power.
My nails dug deeply into my palms. I knew Raphael had been hungry for control, but to watch him take my father's place before he's buried actually sickened me.
One of the older Mafia lords, Dominico Russo, cleared his throat. His face was lined with frowns, but his eyes were sharp. "Perhaps the council should decide who leads," he said slowly. "Carlo would have wanted order, not haste."
Raphael forced a smile, still holding his pistol. "Of course, zio Salvatore. But until then, I'll…"
"Until then," I cut in, my voice was firm, I'll speak for the interests of my father."
The room froze
Raphael turned slowly towards me. Then he laughed. A mocking laugh, meant to pierce me. "You? Don't make me laugh, Abby. This isn't a playground. It's business."
"Business? I stepped forward, my eyes filled with tears and fury. "My father's blood built this business. His name commands loyalty, not yours. You may have a gun, Raphael, but I have his name."
The room was silent once again that even heartbeats could be heard. Some of the men avoided my eyes, but others shifted, uncomfortable. My words had hit a nerve.
Don Vincenzo watched, his lips curled slightly. "Nice," he murmured. "The tiger leaves behind a cub… who thinks she's ready to fight like the tiger."
Before I could reply, a voice came from the doorway.
"Perhaps you should let the cub fight."
Everyone turned. A tall man in a brown coat stepped in, his presence filled the room. His dark hair was parted into a curl, and his expression was calm but dangerous. He was followed by two men I didn't recognize, both heavily armed.
My heart skipped a beat. I knew who he was — Luciano Caruso, better known as Lucky. He was a feared hitman who had worked for my father in silence, his loyalty was rumoured about but never proven.
His eyes fell on me, then down at my blood-stained hands. His jaw tightened.
"Carlo trusted me with many things," he said, his voice sharp and steady."One of them was her." He pointed at me.
Raphael's face darkened. "You're a hired gun, Caruso, remember your place."
Lucky smiled faintly. "That's funny, that's exactly what I was going to tell you."
Tension was high. Raphael's finger tightened near his trigger, but Don Vincenzo raised a hand.
"Enough," he said sharply. "The girl can speak, the boy can have his way, and the council can decide. Until then, let's not destroy the Romano legacy with unnecessary fuss."
He stood adjusting his collar. "But remember Abigail…" His gaze fixed on me. "...in this world, bending the rules often means breaking yourself."
He walked out, his men following. One by one, the other men left. Only Raphael, Lucky, and I remained in the wreckage after supper.
Raphael leaned close again, his voice filled with rage. "Stay in
your lane, Abby. Or you'll end up like your father."
I was unmoved. "Maybe I will," I whispered. "But if I go down, you're going down with me."
He stormed out, and his footsteps echoed on the floorboards.
Silence settled. I stared at the blood-soaked tablecloth, and my heart began to pound loudly.
Lucky's voice cut through the silence. "They won't follow you. Not yet. But I will."
I looked up, alarmed."Why?"
His expression was cool and confusing. "Because Carlo once saved my life. And because…." He paused. "... I think you're the only one at this table who is smart and dangerous enough to win."
I didn't answer. I only looked back at my father's chair, the head of the table is now empty.
For the first time, I imagined myself sitting there. And I swore silently that I would.