Female II Papa Came Home

I've been married to my Mafia Boss husband for 15 years. When we first got married, he couldn't even afford a ring, but I didn't care; I loved him.

I hid my identity. I secretly used my family's influence to help him build his empire from scratch, and I even bore him two children.

His adopted sister always mocked me, calling me an old-fashioned housewife and saying I wasn't good enough for him.

To avoid embarrassing him, I always endured it.

Until our 15th anniversary, because both me and his adopted sister wore red dresses, he told me to stay in the kitchen: "Sofia's right. That red doesn't suit you. Don't come out until the banquet actually ends. Stay in the kitchen. I don't need the Dons from New York seeing you and getting the wrong impression."

I was completely heartbroken and didn't argue anymore.

I dialed a number I hadn't made in 15 years:

"Principessa?"

"It's me," I said, my voice steady. "Tell those old fossils on the Council... Isabella Corleone is coming home."

Today was my 15th wedding anniversary celebration with my mafia boss husband Lorenzo.

I married him when I was eighteen. Back then, he was nothing—just a low-level Soldato shaking down shopkeepers for protection money on the street corners. He couldn’t even afford a proper wedding ceremony.

But I loved him, foolishly and without reservation. I worked in the shadows, secretly pulling strings with my family’s contacts within the core of Cosa Nostra. I helped him eliminate his rivals, one by one, paving his blood-soaked road to the Don's chair.

Tonight was the first time we were hosting a celebration. I had dressed carefully, slipping into my favorite piece—a bespoke crimson velvet gown that screamed regality.

"Damn it, aren't you ready yet?"

Lorenzo knocked on the door, his voice thick with impatience. I pushed the door open, ready to greet him, but my smile faltered. Standing right next to him was Sofia, his young, 'innocent' foster sister.

Sofia was also wearing red.

She raked her eyes over me, a smirk playing on her lips before she covered her mouth to stifle a theatrical giggle.

"Oh, Dio mio, Isabella. That outfit..." She shook her head mockingly. "How do I put this? That red velvet on you... you look like the cleaning lady trying to sneak into a Commission meeting."

She turned to Lorenzo, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. "Boss, I told you. At Isabella's age, she really ought to stick to black. She’d look much more dignified, like a nun."

I remained silent, my gaze fixed on Lorenzo, waiting for him to defend me.

Instead, he frowned, looking at me with critical eyes. "Enough. She's right. That red doesn't suit you. Go change. Don't make the other families laugh at us."

Laugh at us?

Something inside me snapped. A string I had been holding onto for fifteen years finally severed.

Over the years, Sofia had crossed the line countless times, throwing these veiled insults my way. And every single time, Lorenzo would just pat my hand dismissively.

"She's young, she doesn't know the rules," he would say. "You're the Donna, her sister-in-law. Be the bigger person."

Or, "She's helping me handle the cocaine pipeline from Colombia; she's under a lot of stress. Just cut her some slack."

To avoid putting him in a difficult position, I swallowed my pride every time.

I silently laundered his blood money, managed the estate, and played the role of the submissive wife.

But tonight, on our fifteenth anniversary, I was wearing a dress to match his triumph, and because his foster sister decided to wear the same color, I was the embarrassment?

Seeing that I hadn't moved, Lorenzo’s brow furrowed deeper. "Look, I know you like the dress. I’ll have a tailor from Milan make you ten custom gowns tomorrow. But for tonight, take it off."

In the past, whenever he threw money at me after a fight, I would forgive him, no matter how angry I was.

In his mind, I was his loyal dog. No matter how much I was humiliated or neglected, he believed I would never leave his side.

After all, for fifteen years, I had been as docile as a defanged hound.

Lorenzo pulled his hand away from me and instinctively tucked a loose strand of hair behind Sofia's ear.

The gesture was so intimate, so sickeningly tender, it made my stomach turn.

"Sofia just finished a grueling negotiation with the arms dealers in Naples. She's exhausted. Go to the kitchen and prepare her a white truffle risotto."

He didn't stop there. "And listen, don't come out until the banquet actually ends. Stay in the kitchen. I don't need the Dons from New York seeing you and getting the wrong impression."

I pushed down the last shred of pathetic hope I had held for this man.

"Fine. I’ll go."

This time, I didn't argue. I didn't cry. I didn't beg for his affection.

I turned and walked toward the kitchen, my back straight, my resolve absolute.

Lorenzo seemed to pause, likely surprised by my sudden obedience. He wasn't used to silence.

Once inside the kitchen, I bypassed the chefs and went straight to the pantry. From a hidden compartment deep within the cabinets, I pulled out a heavy, encrypted satellite phone.

I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, my eyes turning cold and sharp.

Lorenzo, if you look down on me this much, then perhaps you don't deserve the seat I built for you.

I dialed a number I had memorized a lifetime ago—a number known only to the core members of the "Council of Eleven."

It rang once.

The call was picked up instantly. A voice came through the line—ancient, trembling with disbelief, yet commanding absolute authority.

"Principessa?"

"It's me," I said, my voice steady. "Tell those old fossils on the Council... Isabella Corleone is coming home."