My Family Abandoned Me, I Took Control

After returning to Victoria Harbor City, I spent three months pretending to be the perfect daughter. I bowed to my father, smiled at my mother, and fumbled with my cutlery on purpose. Everyone believed it. Even Viola—the imposter who had lived as me for twenty-two years. Tonight was the Recognition Banquet of the West Harbor Alliance. Crystal chandeliers lit the hall like daylight; the long table gleamed with silverware and flowers. I wore the simplest black dress, sitting in the corner at the far end of the table. No one noticed me. Every eye was on the woman in the white dress beside the head of the table. Viola. She held her fiancé Luca’s arm, smiling with effortless poise. Luca, heir to a young godfather family, was arrogant and ruthless—eyes only for power and money. They stood before the head table; Viola took the knife from the waiter and began cutting the cake. My birthday cake. But she did it more naturally than I ever could. “Happy Birthday, Ivy,” she said, her voice soft and warm. Applause broke out around us. I looked at my father, Alessandro, sitting at the head of the table, tired but trying to keep up appearances. Mother, Isabella, had reddened eyes, filled with guilt as she looked at me. She reached out, but Viola stepped between us. “Mom, Ivy isn’t used to these occasions yet. Don’t make her nervous,” Viola said. Mother’s hand froze midair, then slowly dropped. I kept my head bowed, playing the anxious, obedient daughter. My brother Marco sat next to me and quietly passed me a napkin. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. I smiled at him, saying nothing. The hall was packed with West Harbor Alliance godfathers and capos, laughing and clinking glasses. No one paid attention to me—the real heiress back home for only three months. They only saw Viola. She had ruled this seat for twenty-two years, charming everyone into obedience. I picked up the knife and fork, letting the fork slip on the plate intentionally, a sharp screech echoing. Old godfather Vito frowned, glancing at me with disdain. “The real daughter is nothing special,” he muttered to his neighbor. I heard it. But I simply kept chopping my steak slowly, clumsily. Viola came over, bending to adjust my utensils. “Hold it like this, Ivy,” she whispered, like a gentle sister. I nodded. Thanked her. She straightened, satisfied, and returned to Luca’s side. Luca swirled his wine, eyes locked on me with unapologetic contempt. “Alessandro, your daughter…” he smirked, leaving the rest unsaid. Everyone understood. Father’s face darkened, but he remained silent. The banquet continued. I continued pretending to be a clumsy, polite daughter. Viola moved through the crowd like a fish in water. Luca continued scanning me like he was picking merchandise. No one knew that the three months of etiquette lessons weren’t for social appearances—they were to learn how to seize control of West Harbor’s entire underground network right under everyone’s noses. Forks and knives? Doesn’t matter. What matters is holding a gun steady. I pushed the plate aside, fingers brushing the black call button under the table, smeared with cream from the cake. I didn’t press it. Not yet. Viola hadn’t started her performance. I had waited three months; a few more seconds wouldn’t matter.