Married To My Mafia Stepbrother

Bianca

I stand at the cemetery dressed entirely in black. The fabric of my long coat brushes softly against my legs while the cold Las Vegas wind lifts the edge of my veil. A wide brimmed hat shadows my face and my sunglasses hide the redness in my eyes. My black stilettos sink slightly into the damp grass as I stare at the freshly dug grave in front of me.

My father is dead.

Giuseppe Batisti.

To the world he was powerful. Respected. Feared. A consigliere in the Las Vegas mafia circle. A man whose name opened doors and closed mouths. Yet to me he was simply a distant figure who ruled our house with silence and control.

My mother and I were never truly part of his world. We attended weddings and charity galas. Sometimes funerals like this one. Occasionally a dinner with other powerful families. But the real business of his life was always kept hidden behind locked doors and quiet conversations.

The priest finishes the final prayer as the wooden coffin disappears beneath the ground. The sound of dirt hitting the casket echoes in my ears like distant thunder. Around us men dressed in expensive black suits stand in respectful silence. Some of them are soldiers who worked under my father. Others are men from powerful families across the city.

Despite the crowd surrounding us the atmosphere feels strangely hollow.

My mother stands beside me, her hands folded calmly in front of her. She is not crying. Her face is pale but composed. I know why. For years she endured my father's cruelty behind the doors of our mansion. The bruises she tried to hide. The silent dinners. The cold arguments.

There was never love in their marriage.

Only power.

And yet we lived like royalty.

Mansions with marble floors. A private yacht resting in the harbor. Weekends spent flying across the country in a private jet. Designer clothes filling entire rooms of our home.

Luxury was the one gift my father gave us.

The funeral ends and the line of mourners begins. One by one they approach my mother to offer their condolences.

"I am sorry for your loss, Mrs Batisti."

"Your husband was a respected man."

"He will be missed."

Each sentence sounds empty and rehearsed. My mother nods politely but says very little.

Eventually the crowd begins to thin. Our driver waits beside a long black car parked near the cemetery gates. Behind it several black G wagons idle quietly, filled with the men who once served under my father.

His soldiers.

His empire.

My mother and I walk toward the car. I can feel their eyes watching us with careful attention.

Just as we reach the vehicle the sound of another engine interrupts the silence.

A black SUV slowly rolls through the iron gates of the cemetery and stops near us. My steps freeze.

Something about the arrival feels wrong.

I slide my sunglasses down my nose to get a better look.

The passenger door opens first. A woman steps out gracefully, her heels clicking against the pavement. My eyes narrow immediately.

She looks to be around my mother's age, perhaps in her early forties, but her appearance is far from respectful for a funeral. Her black dress clings tightly to her body and the neckline plunges far too low for the occasion. Her red lipstick is bold. Her long dark hair falls perfectly over her shoulders.

She looks confident.

Almost victorious.

Then the driver door opens.

A man steps out holding a leather briefcase. Recognition makes my brows pull together in confusion.

It is my father's lawyer.

The two of them walk toward us calmly as if they belong here.

The woman speaks first.

"Good afternoon, Bianca. Veronica." Her voice is smooth and unapologetically confident. "My name is Rafaella Deconti. I believe we should discuss a few important matters regarding the late Mr Giuseppe Batisti."

My stomach tightens at the way she says my father's name.

I glance at my mother. For a moment her face remains unreadable, then she gives a small nod.

"Let's go to the mansion," she says quietly.

We drive back to the mansion in tense silence. The black convoy follows behind us like a funeral procession continuing its journey.

Inside the house the air feels colder than usual.

We gather in the large living room where my mother and I sit across from Rafaella and the lawyer. The marble fireplace behind them flickers softly, casting shadows across the room.

The lawyer clears his throat and opens his briefcase.

He removes a thick black folder and places several documents neatly on the table.

"As the legal representative of the late Mr Giuseppe Batisti, I have been instructed to formally present the contents of his final will and testament."

My heart begins beating faster.

The lawyer continues with a calm professional tone.

"Mr Batisti executed this document several months before his passing. The will has been properly witnessed, notarized, and legally registered under the laws of the state of Nevada."

He turns a page.

"According to the terms stated within the document, Mr Batisti has transferred full ownership of his financial assets, business holdings, real estate properties, investment portfolios, private aircraft, and marine vessels to Ms Rafaella Deconti."

For a moment I cannot process what I just heard.

The lawyer continues as if reading from a grocery list.

"The only properties assigned to Mrs Veronica Batisti and Miss Bianca Batisti are the Las Vegas penthouse located on West Harmon Avenue and the Mercedes Benz vehicle currently registered under Mr Batisti's name."

The room goes silent.

I stare at the papers spread across the table.

All the wealth my father controlled.

The mansion.

The jet.

The yacht.

The businesses worth billions.

Gone.

Handed to a stranger.

I force my voice to remain steady. "What about the men outside?"

The lawyer folds his hands calmly.

"The security personnel and operational staff previously employed under Mr Batisti are now under the authority of Ms Deconti, as she is the designated successor to his assets and interests."

I slowly turn my head toward Rafaella.

"So you replaced my father," I say quietly. "You are part of the organization now."

Rafaella smiles slightly.

"There are many things your father trusted me with," she replies.

Then she leans forward with cold confidence.

"Which brings me to the next matter."

Her eyes sweep across the room like she already owns it.

"This house now belongs to me."

My chest tightens.

"I expect both of you to vacate the property by tonight."

My mother does not argue. She simply stands up and walks upstairs.

I follow her in stunned silence.

Within an hour our suitcases are packed.

When we step outside the evening air feels heavier.

Matteo, our driver, stands beside the car. His eyes lower respectfully when he sees me.

But he does not open the door.

I understand immediately.

He no longer works for us.

Without a word I walk around the car and slide into the driver's seat myself. My hands grip the wheel as I start the engine and pull away from the mansion that once belonged to my family.

The penthouse greets us with quiet emptiness.

Later that night I stand in front of the massive glass window overlooking the glittering skyline of Las Vegas.

All of it used to belong to my father.

Now it belongs to Rafaella Deconti.

My reflection stares back at me in the dark glass.

One day I will take everything back.

Every dollar.

Every business.

Every ounce of power that was stolen from us.

I enter alive and I wil leave dead. Because once you are born into the mafia, there is no escaping it.

Behind me my mother finally speaks.

"He was a monster."

I turn to look at her. Her long black hair is damp from the shower and she now wears a simple white dress.

"I hate him," I whisper.

She nods slowly.

"I still have some savings in my account," she says softly. "Enough for us to survive for a little while."

I take a deep breath.

"Do not worry, Mom. I will find a job."

She gives a faint smile.

"And I will start working again too. I still have my degree in interior design. Your father never allowed me to use it."

"You were his trophy wife," I say quietly.

She laughs bitterly.

"I cannot believe I endured that man for so many years."

I step closer and take her hand.

"But now we are free."

For the first time that day she looks hopeful.

"And we will finally learn how to live."