The False Heir of the Mafia

POV Isabella:

I look around the room carefully as my father speaks. We are in the private room of a restaurant, where five important families discuss territories and business. I memorize faces, names and possible weak points, it's what my father taught me since I was a child.

The other men just nod, no one ever dares to contradict my father. Although our fortune has declined somewhat in recent years, our family name is still the strongest of all. We are backed by too many years of dominance over the other families.

I stand silently with my back straight and my face impassive. Here I am Isidro Ricci, the son of the fearsome Antonio Ricci, the perfect heir. No one in this room knows that under this expensive suit Isabella has always hidden. No one knows that I exist under this facade.

"Right, son?" says my father, turning to me.

I nod curtly. "That's right."

My words, few and precise, make one of the men lower his gaze. I know what they see: a stern-looking young man, heir to a criminal empire. They fear my silence more than the screams of others.

"The Castellanos are expanding north," comments one of the men. He has a round face and fidgety hands.

My father makes a dismissive gesture. "Matteo can try, but that won't last."

I notice how they look at me out of the corner of their eyes when no one is talking. Do they suspect something? No way. I have perfected every gesture and every movement over the years. My voice is deep and controlled. My walk is firm and purposeful. Nothing gives Isabella away.

The bartender brings more whiskey and I take a small, unhurried sip. The alcohol burns, but I keep my expression neutral. It's all about staying in control.

"The federales have a new chief of operations," my father says. "Isidro will be in charge of paying him a courtesy call."

Everyone is looking at me now. I tilt my head slightly. They know what it means: bribe if possible, eliminate if necessary.

My reputation as an efficient enforcer is part of the lie we live, and it is precisely what makes up for my shortcomings. My father has taken it upon himself to spread all sorts of rumors about my ruthlessness for years, so no one questions anymore why I'm not as tall or why I'm thinner than the average man.

The meeting ends two hours later with handshakes and pats on the back that I endure without changing my expression. The driver waits for us outside.

"You did well," my father says in the car.

I don't respond, I know his compliments are orders in disguise. I did well because I acted as he expects his son to act, not his daughter.