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Don't Kneel, Daddy — Your Mafia Princess Is Home
Novelix
Completed
I'm Sienna Ferraro — the mob Don's long-lost daughter, finally home after fifteen years. My brothers are made men with body counts. Me? I can't twist off a water bottle. Life is good. Then eight rival crews kick down our door on a live feed, drop my dad and both brothers, and step on our family crest. They want us to kneel. What they don't know? Before the Ferraros found me, I was ten-and-oh in the underground fight pits — the Masked Reaper who "retired." Fine. Retirement can wait. Because nobody makes my dad kneel. Nobody.
Chapters (3)
第1章
I'm the Mafia's long-lost daughter. Delicate, soft, can't even twist open a bottle cap. Until a rival family came to challenge my father and brothers.
I yawned and stretched out my limbs.
"Ten-fight winning streak champ of the underground fight club, coming through."
---
I'm the Mafia's long-lost daughter.
Three months after they brought me home, Dad finally gave up trying to train me.
The reason was simple. I was too damn soft.
First time in the basement gym, he told me to run three laps around the pit. I made it half a lap and squatted on the concrete like a toddler.
Luca — my oldest brother — twisted the cap off a water bottle for me and covered for me with Dad.
"She didn't grow up doing this stuff, Pop. Chill. Baby steps."
Marco, the middle one, ran his mouth but then jogged the rest of my laps himself.
"Look at her. A stiff breeze would knock her over. Give it a rest."
Dad glared at both of them.
"One of you's a circuit champ. One of you's got a body count. And you both spoil her like this?"
I sat on the mat hugging my ice water and nodded along.
Back in my old life, I fought six matches a day and nobody ran half a lap for me.
Now I'm finally retired. Why the hell would I sign up for pain?
Dad didn't give up. He tried teaching me basic self-defense.
The trainer raised his hand. I flinched back on instinct.
Dad went quiet. The next day, he hired Rosa.
Rosa cuts my fruit into little cubes and feeds them to me on a toothpick.
Life is good.
The Ferraro name means something in this city. Dad took three underground titles back in the day. Now he runs Little Italy — every block, every card game, every liquor front. Luca took last year's Five Families blood match. Marco just got back from Sicily, and there's a whole Instagram fan page begging him to marry them.
Me? Everyone just assumed I was in charge of eating.
Sometimes a blog would sneer that the Ferraros' long-lost daughter turned out to be a total dud.
Dad heard it once. Killed that reporter's press pass overnight.
"My baby girl was gone fifteen years. She came home to be spoiled, not to perform for you vultures."
Made sense to me.
The night before our Founding Night gala, some sponsor tried to book me for a photo shoot with my brothers. Their pitch was slick — put the long-lost mob princess in the middle, in fight gear, and the sponsorship money jumps thirty percent.
Dad shoved the contract back across the table.
"She doesn't want to fight. Don't dress her up like she does."
Marco tossed in his two cents.
"You think this family needs the extra thirty percent? She gets tired standing for ten damn minutes."
I was on the couch eating grapes. I nodded hard.
The rep stared at me a beat too long, then chickened out.
On his way out, I heard him mutter to his assistant that the Ferraros treat their daughter better than their champions.
Marco laughed out loud.
"A champ loses, he trains again. Our sister was gone fifteen years. You bet your ass she's worth more."
---
第2章
Growing up, I had plenty of people slap a price tag on my forehead.
How much a match paid. How much a punch was worth. Whether I could still fight with a cracked rib.
So the more the Ferraros treated me like a useless little doll, the more I could finally breathe.
Founding Night rolled around. I only came downstairs for cake.
Luca had a reporter in his ear. Marco had an exhibition match lined up. Dad was working the room with the old guard.
I'd just cut myself the fattest slice of strawberry shortcake when the front door slammed open with a crash.
The Ferraro family crest — Dad's carved oak plaque — hit the marble floor and split.
Eight crews walked in like they owned the place. Leading them was Dante Rossi.
Dante used to be Dad's protégé. Split off years back over "differences." Since then, he's muscled seven other crews under him.
Dante ground the broken crest under his shoe and smiled at Dad.
"Boss. Five years. Same old place, huh?"
Dad's smile died.
"It's Founding Night, Dante. I'm not doing this with you tonight."
Dante snapped his fingers.
A dozen phones went up. The dark-web feed lit up. Viewer count climbing fast.
"I didn't come to talk old times. I came to take your house."
"All eight of us. Saves you the trouble of scheduling."
Marco threw his jacket at his assistant and started toward the pit.
I stared at the eight guys behind Dante. I slowly set down my cake.
Two faces looked familiar.
Guys I'd made cry in the Night Harbor pit, years ago.
---
Marco went first.
He'd been in peak shape lately. Three minutes in, he had Dante's boy pinned against the ropes.
Our people started to breathe. Then the other guy switched gears.
He deliberately dropped his left guard. Baited Marco into a heavy right.
I frowned. Words slipped out.
"Don't chase. He's pulling your weight."
A few of the family guys turned and looked at me.
Somebody laughed.
"Princess, you can't even punch a bag. Save the coaching."
I ignored him. Kept watching.
Next second — the guy dropped low and drove his shoulder up into Marco's chest.
Marco was already leaning in. Too late to pull back.
WHAM. His back hit the concrete.
The whole compound went dead quiet.
I stood up. Luca stepped in front of me first.
"Don't look. Back upstairs."
"That rib of his might be gone again."
Luca froze for a second.
Marco pushed himself up, sweat dripping off his forehead. He waved at me.
"Hey — princess. Quit frowning. I'm good."
The ref counted to eight. Marco got up.
But I already knew. This one was over.
That last hit wasn't a normal takedown. The guy went straight for the old injury.
Sure enough, Dante was smirking at the edge.
"Marco. Third rib on your left. Broke it two years back, didn't you?"
Dad's face went dark.
Now Marco got it too.
They had his medical file.
Dante didn't even fake innocence.
"Scouting your opponent is basic. Ferraros can't be sore losers, can they?"
Technically he wasn't wrong.
Sure, medical files shouldn't leak. But once you're in the pit, exploiting a weakness is fair game.
What actually made my skin crawl — every single one of his feints looked rehearsed. Like he'd seen six months of Marco's training tapes. He'd nailed the two dodge tweaks Marco made just this year.
Dad saw it too. He sent his assistant to check the internal tape server.
The assistant came back fast, looking sick.
"Boss. Somebody's been pulling training footage all month. Account's been wiped."
Now everyone got it. Tonight wasn't spur of the moment.
The next three minutes, every hit landed on Marco's left side.
He toughed it out to the bell. Lost on points.
The live feed exploded.
Dante's guys dragged the scoreboard next to what was left of our crest.
Round one. Ferraros down.
Luca didn't say a word. He climbed straight into the pit.
His style was steadier than Marco's. Dante's second guy couldn't touch him at first.
End of round one, Luca was up by four.
Dante didn't blink. Just tagged out for guy number two.
New guy wasn't a heavy hitter. But his footwork was ridiculous. He kept circling Luca's right side.
I watched maybe fifteen seconds. Then it clicked.
Luca changed his stance last year. His right leg pushes off half a beat slower. Almost nobody could tell.
But if somebody knew — and stretched that half-beat wide open — Luca's whole cornering game falls apart.
I opened my mouth again.
"Luca. Stop crowding his right. He's dragging you."
Nobody laughed this time.
Because I'd been right about Marco.
Luca heard me and pulled up.
But the other guy had been waiting for it. He rushed in and cracked Luca in the gut.
Luca blocked the first. The second grazed his jaw.
The cornerman was screaming about distance.
Dante's crew stood behind him, calm as a funeral. Like they'd already mapped every adjustment Luca might make.
I stared at the tablet in Dante's hand. My stomach kept sinking.
This wasn't some spur-of-the-moment challenge.
They'd been planning this for months.
Round three, Luca was gassed. The other guy pressed in fast.
A hook caught Luca clean on the temple.
His knees folded. He went down at the edge of the pit.
Mom cried out his name.
The glass in my hand cracked.
Dante stood up. Nice and slow.
"Round two. Also over."
He looked at Dad. Polite smile.
"Boss. Both your boys are down."
"Now it's you. Right?"
---
第3章
Dad shrugged off his jacket. Mom grabbed his arm.
"Your back just healed. Don't do this."
Dad patted her hand.
"They stepped on our crest, Elena. If I don't get up, tomorrow the whole city's laughing at the Ferraros."
He turned to me.
"Sienna. Upstairs. Whatever you hear tonight — don't come down."
I didn't move.
Dad thought I was scared. His voice softened.
"It's okay, baby. We've got plenty stashed away."
"They take the block, Daddy buys you another one. Still spoiled rotten."
My throat closed up a little.
When I first came home to the Ferraros, I didn't really fit.
They were loud. Too much in my business.
Luca noticed I wasn't eating. He'd get up at 2 a.m. to make me pasta.
Marco called me a princess to my face but never left the house without picking up the softest sneakers he could find in my size.
Dad was the worst. Said the stairs were too tall for me. Kept trying to put an elevator in a three-story townhouse.
They all treated me like I was made of glass.
But not once — not a single time — did any of them try to trade me for anything.
Dad climbed in the pit. Dante peeled off his own jacket.
This one Dante was taking himself.
Old master, old student. Knew each other's tells cold.
First two rounds, dead even.
Round three, Dante closed in and hammered Dad's right kidney.
Mom went white.
I shot up from my chair.
"He knows Dad's old injury."
That injury was from Dante's own time in this house. He knew every place Dad hurt. Every place Dad couldn't afford to give ground.
Dante hit the same spot three times in a row.
Dad clenched his teeth. Didn't back off. Fourth time, he even baited an opening and cracked Dante across the jaw.
Our side finally cheered.
Dante just wiped his mouth.
"Boss. Always fighting like your life's on the line."
"Shame. Age catches everybody."
Next second, his stance shifted.
My blood went cold.
That was Night Harbor pit-style. The kind of thing you use to end a guy's career. Technically legal. Every hit designed to shut off your ability to swing back.
Dad didn't know that rhythm. Dodged the first. Missed the second.
Dante's knee slammed into Dad's kidney.
Dad flew back through the ropes. His spine cracked into the steel steps.
Mom got to him first. He couldn't stand up.
Luca held his head. Marco held his ribs. Both of them tried to move — the family doctor blocked them.
Dante's crew dropped a contract on the table.
Dante crouched in front of Dad.
"Boss. Three losses. Rules are rules. Sign."
Territory surrender. Plus, the Ferraros pull out of the Five Families circuit for five years.
Dad read it. The veins on the back of his hand jumped.
"You didn't come to challenge. You came to bury us."
Dante just smiled.
"You're only figuring this out now?"
He waved at the cameras to zoom in. Live count already past eight million.
"Tell you what, though. For old times' sake."
"Kneel. Say the Ferraros aren't good enough. Right into the feed."
"I'll waive the five-year ban."
The whole warehouse went silent.
Marco tried to lunge. Luca pinned him down.
Mom's eyes were red. But she didn't tell Dad to bend.
She just picked up the contract. Asked, calm as ice —
"If we sign the territory surrender, and skip the kneeling. That work?"
Dante looked her over.
"Sure. Ferraros just stay out of the circuit. Forever's fine too."
Mom nodded. Handed Dad the pen.
"Sign it. Your spine is worth more than a nameplate."
Dad stared at her. Didn't take the pen.
But it hit me right then — every Ferraro in this room treats fighting like it's holy. And when they actually have to pick? Pride never wins.
Dante didn't rush. He nudged the broken crest with his shoe. His heel right on the F.
"Take your time, Boss."
"Feed's still rolling. Everybody's watching."
That's when I stepped out from behind the crowd.
Dad saw me. His first reaction wasn't anger.
It was panic. He tried to push himself up.
"Who let you down here — get back!"
I didn't answer. I just looked down at his hand. Still bleeding. Little red drops running between his fingers onto the concrete.
Suddenly, retirement could wait.
---
