Lysandra Vale
I should probably confess something up front: I don't have a death wish. Not really. I mean, sure, I make bad decisions, date worse men, and eat bodega sushi like it's not a crime against humanity, but I wasn't actively trying to get whacked.
And yet.
Here I am, telling you the story of how one joke about garlic bread got me noticed by the mafia.
It started at The Rusty Mic, my usual comedy haunt in Queens. Picture a room that smells like spilled beer and regret, with a stage smaller than my bathroom and a mic so sticky it probably has its own immune system. That's where I thrive.
I strutted out, grabbed the mic like it owed me money, "Queens is wild," I started. "My neighbors have arguments so loud, I swear the FBI could just tap my walls and close three cases."
The audience chuckled. Okay, they were alive.
"But I think the mafia lives next door. How do I know? Because every time I walk past their house, the smell of garlic makes me want to confess to crimes I didn't even commit. Like—sorry, officer, yes, it was me who stole all those staplers from middle school."
Laughter rolled. I smirked.
"And these dudes always say it's a 'family business.' Cute. My family once tried running a garage sale together. My aunt stole the cash box, my dad sold our lawn chairs for two bucks, and my little cousin tried to trade the toaster for Pokémon cards. If that's a 'family business,' then yeah, we're absolutely criminals."
The front row snorted. Good.
"And mob names? Iconic. We got Tony Two-Times, Sammy the Bull, Johnny Sausage. Like—what committee is making these? Do they just spin a wheel of pasta and barn animals? 'Congrats, you're Ricky Rigatoni the Squirrel.'"
The crowd roared. Phones were out now, recording.
"Here's the thing though. If the mafia ever kidnaps me, I know how I'll die. Not by a bullet. Nah. They'll tie me to a chair and tell me I can't use sarcasm for twenty-four hours. Boom. I'll flatline in ten minutes. Just put 'Death by Personality' on my gravestone."
The place erupted. Someone shouted, "MARRY ME!"
I pointed at him with the mic. "Sorry, I don't date men who laugh at all my jokes. I need someone who looks at me the way a mob boss looks at unpaid debt — concerned, furious, and slightly turned on."
The room lost it. I knew it. That was the set. That was the clip. The one that would finally get me noticed.
I hopped offstage high on adrenaline, not realizing the cosmic irony of what I'd just set in motion.
The next morning, my phone was having a seizure on my nightstand. I cracked an eye open, regretted all my life choices, and grabbed it.
Three hundred notifications.
I blinked. Rubbed my eyes. Looked again.
Your video has 1.2M views.
I screamed into my pillow so loud my cat, Mussolini (don't ask), launched himself under the dresser.
Scrolling through comments, I cackled like a villain:
"This chick just roasted the mafia and lived to tell about it 😂"
"Someone check if she's still alive tomorrow."
"Marry me, Queen Garlic."
My DMs were worse. Fifty percent thirsty dudes offering to "protect me," thirty percent trolls saying "sleep with the fishes," and twenty percent podcast invites.
Was I terrified? Nope. I was glowing. This was it. My break. Lysandra Vale, the comic with balls big enough to roast the mob. Finally.
Of course, my best friend Juniper wasn't impressed when I called her.
"Lys, do you want to die?" she asked, horrified.
"Relax. They probably don't even watch TikTok."
"Lys. Everyone watches TikTok. Priests watch TikTok. Babies watch TikTok. You think guys named 'Fat Tony' aren't scrolling at 2 a.m. like the rest of us?"
"Fine," I said. "Worst-case scenario, I'll change my name, grow a mustache, move to Idaho."
"You're insufferable."
But I didn't care. That week was a blur of followers, retweets, interviews, and a barista who recognized me and gave me free oat milk. Fame, baby.
By Thursday, The Rusty Mic was packed wall-to-wall. Usually, we're lucky to get fifty drunk locals. Tonight? Fire hazard. People spilling out the door, chanting my name.
I strutted onstage in ripped jeans and a leather jacket, riding the wave.
"You guys ready to laugh?" I grinned.
Cheers.
"Good, because my landlord still hasn't fixed my sink, and at this point I'm one leaky faucet away from joining the mafia just for the dental plan."
The crowd cracked up. Easy. Too easy.
"And listen, I'm not saying my building is run by mobsters, but last week I asked for pest control, and a guy named Vinny showed up with a baseball bat. To deal with the rat problem."
Roars. I owned them.
But then I saw him.
Front row. Dead center.
A man in a charcoal suit, sitting like a king among peasants. Dark eyes that didn't blink, high cheekbones sharp enough to slice bread, lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile.
And he wasn't laughing.
My brain hiccupped mid-joke. The crowd thought it was a pause for dramatic effect and howled even harder. But my palms went slick. Who the hell wears a suit here?
I kept going, though my gaze kept snapping back to him. He tilted his head slightly, like he was studying me under a microscope. Like I was a puzzle piece he already owned, just waiting to put me in place.
So, naturally, I poked the bear.
"You ever notice mobsters order food like it's a death threat? 'Extra garlic knots, or your family dies.' That's not scary, that's carb loading."
The crowd howled. Beer sprayed.
Him? Nothing. Just that quiet, heavy gaze.
The show ended with thunderous applause. I took a bow, signed three napkins, dodged a marriage proposal. But through it all, I saw him stand. Tall, broad-shouldered, deliberate. He walked for the exit with calm that screamed danger.
My gut said let him go. My mouth, as usual, didn't listen.
"Hey!" I called. "Suit guy!"
He stopped. Turned.
God, up close he was worse. Worse in the kind of way that made my stomach flip. Espresso-dark eyes. A voice smooth enough to sell sins wholesale.
"You've got guts," he said. Not a compliment. A fact. "Most people don't joke about the mafia."
I tilted my chin, heart hammering. "Well, I'm not most people."
"No." His smirk sharpened. "You're not."
He slid a black card from his pocket and held it out. Heavy stock, embossed. Just a name and a number.
Domenico Rauth.
And then he was gone, leaving me holding what felt like both a golden ticket and a death sentence.
That night, I lay in bed staring at his name until it blurred. Domenico Rauth. A name that sounded like a promise.
I didn't know if he wanted to recruit me, silence me, or something far more dangerous.
All I knew was, for the first time since I went viral, I was truly, absolutely terrified.
And I think I liked it.