My Mob Matriarch Mother Faked My Overdose Death To Take My Syndicate Rank — 12 Years Later, A Hidden Mob Ledger Revealed Her Betrayal
I walked into Sal DeMarco’s social club on Broad Street, the manila folder from the bank clutched tightly in my hand. The place was quiet, steeped in the scent of stale cigars and old money. Sal sat at a small, round table in the back, sipping espresso, his eyes sharp and unblinking. He was a traditionalist, a capo who still believed in the old ways, in honor and rules. If anyone could understand, it was him.
I approached his table, the murmur of distant conversation dying as I drew near. Sal’s reputation for stoicism was well-earned. He simply raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the empty chair opposite him.
“Sal,” I said, my voice carefully neutral. “We need to talk.”
He took another slow sip of espresso. “Julian Rossi. They said you were dead. A bad dose, I heard.”
“They lied,” I responded, pushing the folder across the table. “My mother lied. Everyone lied.”
He picked up the folder, his gaze never leaving mine. He opened it, his expression unreadable as he scanned the documents: the fraudulent death certificate, the agreement with Judge Vance, the monthly payments to Dr. Thorne, the transfer of my real estate holdings. He paused at the figure of $18,000,000, a faint tightening around his eyes the only tell.
“Teresa Rossi,” he murmured, his voice low. “Always ambitious. But this… this is beyond ambition.”
Just as a flicker of understanding, perhaps even belief, began to register in his gaze, the double doors to the social club burst open. Leo “The Hammer” Bruno strode in, flanked by two of Teresa’s men. He carried a second, thicker folder.
“Sal,” Leo boomed, his eyes immediately locking onto me. “You got a problem here.”
He tossed his folder onto the table, scattering my own documents. It was filled with official-looking papers, mugshots, and hospital letterheads.
“This man,” Leo announced, pointing a thick finger at me. “He’s not Julian Rossi. He’s a violent mental patient named Dominic. Escaped from the state facility a week ago. Killed a nurse while making his break.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Gaslighting. Round three. Teresa had anticipated my move.
Sal picked up one of the doctored mugshots. It was a poorly altered photo of me, with dark circles under my eyes and a wild, unkempt appearance. The report claimed I had been committed in 2010 for stabbing an inmate during a prison riot.
“Dominic,” Sal said, his voice now colder, his eyes flickering between me and the fabricated documents. “Is this true?”
“It’s a lie,” I insisted, my voice rising. “My mother fabricated these records. Just like she fabricated my death! She’s trying to discredit me because I have the truth.”
Leo scoffed. “The truth? The man’s a danger to himself and others. Delusional. Thinks he’s a dead mob boss.”
Sal looked at the intricate details of the psychiatric reports, then back at my own documents, then back to my face. The weight of his decision hung heavy in the air. He was a man of tradition, but also a man who valued syndicate stability. Two conflicting truths lay before him, both claiming authenticity.
He pressed his lips into a thin line. The club was silent, every eye on our table.
“Both of you,” Sal said, his voice flat. “My men will take you to separate rooms. I will verify these claims myself.”
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