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.

We arrive at the mansion at night. The garden lights illuminate the path to the door. Two guards greet us with respect. To them I am also the young Isidro.

"I'll give you the details about the fed tomorrow," my father says before walking into his office. "Rest up for the day."

I nod and walk up the stairs to my room. I lock the door and then check that the curtains are completely closed. Only then do I allow myself to breathe.

I take off my suit jacket and hang it carefully. The tie follows, then the shoes. Each garment is a part of the armor that keeps me alive.

In front of the mirror, I unbutton my shirt. The bandages tighten my chest until it hurts. I slowly unroll them, feeling my body release. I take a deep breath for the first time in hours. I also undo my hair, black and short, the way I've always been forced to have it.

The face that looks back at me is mine and at the same time that of a stranger: Isabella Ricci, a woman who only exists within these four walls.

I put on a simple robe and sit on the bed. The silence of the room is heavy, in here there is no one to impress and no one to fear. Just me and my thoughts.

"Damn it," I whisper, rubbing the red marks the bandages have left on my skin.

My mother died when I was five years old. My father said it was an accident, but years later I discovered the truth: she wanted to leave him, to take her little daughter away from this world, and he found out. That's why he killed her without remorse, to show the world that the Riccis don't forgive betrayal, much less if it comes from someone close to them.

"Women are weak and no one respects them," he told me one day. "That's why you will be my son, not my daughter."

This is how my transformation began, and this is how I have continued to live until my twenty-fourth year. Classes in fighting, in intimidation, in the use of weapons. I learned to walk, talk and think like the son my father needed.

I get up and walk to the window. I open a small space between the curtains. The night is clear and the stars are shining far away. What would it be like to just go out and not come back?

The answer is: impossible. My father would find me wherever I went. Just as he found my mother when she tried to escape. As he has found everyone who ever betrayed him.

My father does not accept failures or weaknesses. And being a woman, for him, is the greatest weakness of all.

I turn away from the window and walk to my closet. In the back, hidden behind suits and shirts, is a red dress I secretly bought. I have never worn it, nor will I ever be able to wear it. But on rough nights, like today, I allow myself to pull it out and fantasize a little about what it would be like to wear it someday.

I carefully put the dress away, lie down and turn off the light. In the darkness, I allow myself a moment of weakness. I sigh deeply.

Tomorrow I will be Isidro Ricci again, the relentless executioner of all the bastards in the city. The man-child my father always dreamed of. Because there is no way out.

But tonight I'm just Isabella. And for now that's more than enough.