Wrong Sister Claimed By The Mafia King

Wrong Sister Claimed By The Mafia King

Twin_Star05

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Love was the only part of me untouched by blood. The moment she screamed my name, that too was taken. I searched for her in every shadow. Now that I have her again... I'll burn the world before I let her go - Jairo Vitale

Chapter 1 PROLOGUE

The road ahead was long, cold, and eerily quiet. Jairo gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fixed forward as he pressed on the accelerator.

He was going to tell her today.

He took a right turn, and his gaze flicked to the pink box on the passenger seat. She was going to love it. The color was as innocent as her. Pure and surreal.

The dormitory was silent when he arrived. School had gone on holiday two days ago, but she had stayed behind because of him - to spend more time together while he planned to tell her who he truly was: heir to a Mafia empire.

If she wanted to stay by his side forever, she needed to know what it meant to become the Mafia Queen. He just needed five years. That's all he needed to take over the empire and build a world safe enough for her.

He entered the elevator with the pink box, and reached her floor. Arriving at her door, he paused, noticing it was slightly ajar.

His pulse quickened as he carefully pushed it open, only to see a trail of blood drops on the floor, leading to a blood stained pink cardigan.

He dropped the pink box without thinking and rushed forward to grab the cardigan. It was hers.

He tore through the room in a panic. Most of her roommates were gone, and the silence pressed in.

"Emilia!" he shouted, bursting out of the room. He pulled out his phone to dial her number, but her phone started ringing from inside the room.

He ran through the hallway, desperate, before a muffled scream pierced the air.

He didn't think twice.

He followed the sound, his heart thundering in his chest. It was coming from the second elevator.

"Emilia?!" He slammed his fists on the closed elevator doors, shouting her name, cursing under his breath as he continued to press the buttons.

He didn't waste time going to the other elevator. He turned and bolted down the stairs, two steps at a time, praying for his instincts to be wrong.

Then he reached the bottom.

And froze in horror.

There she was. Inside a black car, banging her fists against the window. Tear-streaked. Terrified.

"Emilia!" he roared, his voice ripping from his throat.

Fear. Pain. Anguish.

Everything hit him all at once.

He sprinted toward the car as it began to move. His fingers instinctively searched his pockets for his car keys only to realize they must have fallen back in the room.

He picked up his pace and ran faster. Her eyes met his through the back window. She was screaming his name.

Then a masked man appeared beside her and jabbed a syringe into her neck.

Jairo watched helplessly as her body went limp, slumping into the seat and disappearing from view completely.

His heart dropped.

"Emilia..." he breathed like a prayer.

His foot struck a stone, and he crashed hard onto the ground. Blood had filled his mouth, but he didn't care.

He pushed himself up and kept running, watching as the car disappeared into the distance. There was no plate number.

No clue.

Nothing but the sound of her voice echoing in his mind.

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I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.

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