Pretend Mom to the Mafia Boss’s Son

Inside the Marcelli mansion, the atmosphere was heavy. Not loud. Not tense in the obvious way. But heavy, like the air itself knew not to move too quickly. Guards posted at every corner barely blinked. The maids stepped lightly, their shoes silent against the polished floors, their presence reduced to shadows sliding past the walls. Somewhere in the room, there was a faint clinking. It wasn’t sharp. It didn’t echo. But in the stillness, it was all anyone could hear. Lorenzo Marcelli sat in the center of it. His chair faced the wide glass wall of the study, the lake outside flat and silver under the early evening light. His expression was unreadable. One hand rested on the metal armrest, fingers tapping a slow rhythm, while the other held a glass of scotch that barely moved. He hadn’t said a word since the man walked in. “I know you’re not pleased,” the man started again, his voice tight. Lorenzo shifted slightly in his seat, and the man’s words died on his tongue. He was older than Lorenzo by at least fifteen years, maybe more. His coat was too thick for the weather. His collar was stiff, like he had taken extra time to look presentable. But none of that mattered now. Not when his eyes dropped to the floor and he took a cautious half-step back. He didn’t want to be in this room. No one ever did. There was no shouting. No raised voices. Lorenzo hadn’t moved more than a few inches since the meeting began, but the weight of him filled the entire study. It didn’t matter that he was young. He didn’t carry power the way most men tried to. He wore it like something built into his skin. He didn’t need to remind anyone who he was. They already knew. And if they didn’t, they learned fast. The tapping stopped. Lorenzo brought the glass to his lips and took a slow sip, his eyes still locked on the lake. The man across from him didn’t speak again. He didn’t blink, either. “You know,” Lorenzo said, slow and unbothered. His gaze never left the glass window, but the shift in the room was immediate. “The kind of man I hate the most are those without backbones. They’re…” He tilted his head slightly, looking for the words. “How do you say this? Easy to break.” Behind him, the man wiped at his temple again. His hand came away damp. The room was fully air-conditioned, but he was sweating through his collar. His shoes barely made a sound against the carpet, yet he stepped back like the floor might open up beneath him. Lorenzo finally turned. His face gave nothing away, but his eyes said enough. They were quiet. Focused. Waiting. The man lowered his head, swallowed hard. “You don’t come back until you have what I want,” Lorenzo said. “Do you understand?” “But the—” Lorenzo narrowed his eyes. The man’s words stopped like they’d been pulled from his mouth. “Did you not hear me?” His voice was sharp now. Not loud. Sharp. “I said—” A knock cut him off. He didn’t look away. His jaw shifted, tight. He exhaled through his nose, short and irritated. “Enter.” The door creaked open and one of the guards stepped inside. The hesitation in his movement was almost laughable. He looked like he’d practiced whatever he was going to say and still forgot every word the second he saw who was in the room. Lorenzo turned his head, slowly. “Well?” “Uh… there’s a—” “There’s a what?” “A baby, boss. At the gate.” Lorenzo blinked. He didn’t look angry. He looked confused. Like he wasn’t sure he heard him right. “A baby,” he repeated. “Yes, sir.” “And what do you want me to do with that information?” The guard opened his mouth, then shut it again. He took a step back like he was giving the question more space. Lorenzo set the glass down. The thud of it hitting the desk was enough to make both men flinch. He stood, eyes locked on the guard. “You interrupt my meeting to say that. You walk in, empty-handed, tongue-tied, and somehow think this is—” “We think it’s your son, sir.” That shut the room up. Lorenzo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The man he’d been reprimanding stepped farther to the side like he wanted to vanish. The guard stood straighter, but it was a forced kind of bravery. One that knew it might not matter. “Have you been drinking?” Lorenzo asked, his voice lower now. “No, sir.” “Then what kind of joke is this?” “I think you need to see it for yourself, sir.” He didn’t answer. Not right away. He just stared—hard—and reached for the suit jacket hanging off the back of his chair. His silence didn’t make the air any easier to breathe. The guard turned, quick to get the door. Lorenzo followed. He didn’t ask another question.