My Mafia Dad Was Dying, So I Rewrote His Countdown

The next day, Dad comes home from a family meeting and locks himself in his office. I follow him in with a bowl of black medicine. “Dad. Drink this.” He looks at the bowl. “What is that?” “My Back-from-the-Dead Super Tonic.” Dad rubs his temple. “Give some to Bruno first. If he survives, I’ll drink it.” “No. Bruno is my best dog-friend.” Dad stares at me. “Mom said you used to test all her medicine. Why can’t you test mine?” “Your mother at least examined me before making me drink it.” I look at the glowing number above his head. Nine. “Mom said you’re going to die a violent death. You know what that means, right?” Dad answers flatly. “It means I won’t die peacefully.” I nod. “So checking your pulse won’t help. But this can keep poison from killing you for a while.” Martin’s eyes light up. “Sir, she’s your own daughter. She wouldn’t hurt you.” Dad takes the bowl and drains it. The number above his head flickers. Nine. Ten. My eyes light up. “Congratulations, Dad! My tonic bought you one more day.” “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” I pull an agreement from inside my coat. “Now sign this inheritance agreement. When you die, everything you own becomes mine.” Dad’s face goes dark. Martin grabs his chest again and slowly lowers himself into a chair.

Now that poison probably won’t kill Dad, I need to figure out what else will. I crouch beside Bruno. “How do you think Dad dies?” Bruno: “Woof.” I nod. “Good point.” Bruno: “Woof, woof!” “Also possible.” Martin looks between us, then crouches down too. Martin: “Bruno, how does Mr. Bellandi die?” Bruno barks four times. Martin turns to me eagerly. “What did he say?” I stare at him. “You don’t understand him?” Martin shakes his head. “Then why did you ask?” “Because I thought you did.” “I’m not a dog. How would I understand dog language?” Martin goes quiet. “Then what were you doing just now?” “Brainstorming. It’s also called talking to myself.” I get to my feet. “How many personal guards does Dad have?” Martin looks embarrassed. “None.” “Bodyguards?” “None.” I frown. “What about armed men at the estate?” Martin finally straightens with pride. “Thirty.” I stare at him. Thirty? My mother has more men chasing her than Dad has men protecting him. No wonder he’s so easy to kill. Clearly, I have to solve this myself. I grab Bruno and head out.

By evening, I come back with two men in worn-out clothes. “These are Dad’s new bodyguards. Eight hundred dollars a month each, plus room and meals.” Martin looks them up and down. “Where did you find them?” “The waterfront.” His face changes. I add quickly, “They’re professional fighters.” Martin looks like he has questions. But after the two men shower, change clothes, and come back downstairs, he looks much more hopeful. I picked them using Mom’s standards for a husband. Rule number one: broad shoulders, narrow waist, handsome face. The next morning, they stand beside Dad. The number above his head jumps to nineteen. Perfect. “Dad, meet Wait and Hold On. I picked them myself.” Gabriel’s mouth twitches. “Couldn’t you give them normal names?” “No.” I look up. The number flickers again. Twenty. My eyes widen. “See? Just saying their names bought you another day.” Dad stares at me. “So how long do I have now?” I hold up two fingers. “Twenty days.” Wait and Hold On follow him to work. They tell us they’re brothers who came to New York looking for jobs. They eat a lot, but otherwise they’re easy to keep. Whether they can actually fight doesn’t really matter. Dad probably won’t live that long anyway. They can be decorative. And they’re handsome. When Dad dies, maybe Mom can inherit them too. Mom loves handsome men. I didn't tell Dad, instead, I tell Martin that part. His face goes pale. He presses a hand to his chest and slowly lowers himself into a chair.

Dad comes home from a family meeting, and the number above his head has dropped to nine. I’m furious. I need to meet the little heir who keeps shortening Dad’s life. That same day, the Bellandi family officially recognizes me as Gabriel’s daughter, so Dad takes me to headquarters to meet Ethan. He’s seven, sitting in a huge leather chair that practically swallows him. I walk over. “Move over. That chair’s big enough for you, me, and Dad.” The old consigliere’s cigar drops from his mouth. Above Dad’s head, nine flickers into five. Found the problem. Ethan really does want Dad dead. But Ethan calmly scoots over and pats the empty space beside him. What a little snake. Dad grabs the back of my coat before I can sit. “Chloe grew up away from the family. Excuse her manners.” Ethan smiles. “Uncle Gabriel, Chloe’s delightful. I like her already.” He talks like he’s seventeen instead of seven. Now I feel immature. I try to find something we have in common. “Have you ever put a firecracker in a cow pie?” “No.” “What about horse poop?” He shakes his head again. Poor kid. Mom says a childhood without blowing up cow pies doesn’t count. So the next day, I sneak Ethan out. We spend the afternoon blowing up horse manure. When I get home, Dad’s countdown has jumped to nineteen. I beam at Martin. “Taking Ethan out to blow up poop makes Dad live longer!” Martin goes pale, presses a hand to his chest, and heads straight for Dad. I’m grounded. Dad even assigns Hold On to watch me. That’s funny. I hired Hold On myself.