Christmas Downfall: Don, You Shouldn't Harass A Mafia Princess

The acrid tang of disinfectant, laced with a faint whiff of gunpowder, pricked my nostrils as I stared dazedly at the halo of the surgical lamp.

This was the private operating room on the third basement floor of the old mansion-built by my father years ago to weather clan vendettas.

Its walls were bulletproof, micro submachine guns were concealed in the air ducts.

In a daze, the eighteen-year-old Daniel flashed before my eyes.

He always sat in the first row of the classroom.

The collar of his faded white shirt was frayed at the edges, yet he always fastened it to the very top button.

Once, he'd missed three days of school with a high fever.

When I tracked him down to a construction site on the outskirts of town, following the address of his part-time job, he was staggering along the scaffolding with a sack of cement slung over his shoulder.

Sweat mixed with dust streamed down his forehead, and his knees trembled with every step. I stuffed 50 dollars into his canvas backpack-the one with a patch he'd sewn on the side himself, using scraps from an old pair of jeans.

He chased me for three blocks, and when he slammed the money back into my palm at the alleyway entrance, his knuckles were white with exertion.

"Anna, don't make me feel like a groveling dog."

Later, I learned to "coincidentally" bring an extra sandwich, wrap it in tin foil, and hide it in his desk drawer.

I'd "casually" leave review materials on the corner of his table, marked up with pencil notes highlighting the key points-he was always working night shifts and never had time to study properly.

On the night of Chrismas, snow was falling as I stepped out of the dormitory wrapped in a mink coat.

There he stood under the streetlamp, the cuffs of his cotton jacket leaking white fluff, yet he clutched two roasted sweet potatoes tightly to his chest.

The wind ruffled his hair, and frost clung to his eyelashes.

When he saw me, his eyes lit up like the muzzle of a gun in the freezing night.

"Anna," his voice trembled violently as he pressed the hot sweet potatoes into my hands, "can you wait for me? Wait until I... have what it takes to stand beside you."

Years later, he became known as the "Silver Fox" of New York's underworld.

That night, he pinned me down on an Italian handwoven rug.

His fingertips traced the family crest tattooed on my collarbone, and his voice cracked with emotion.

"For years, I slept only three hours a night. I hauled cargo at the docks by day and learned to shoot from the old Don by night. I was terrified your father's men would blow my brains out with a single bullet. I was terrified you'd find out that even the money to buy you a lipstick was earned with my life on the line."

On the day he met my parents, he wore a custom-tailored suit with solid gold cufflinks, yet his fingers tightened instantly when he laid eyes on my father-the "Tiger of the East Coast," the ruler of New York's largest mafia clan, a man Daniel hadn't even dared to look up to back then. He told me later that in that moment, his only thought was:

"The finish line I fought tooth and nail to reach was nothing but the starting line you were born on."

After learning about my family background, he became the most reckless madman in the mafia. He was always the first to charge into enemy territory during turf wars, dared to press a gun to the head of a rival family's elder at negotiation tables, and even stormed a hostile gang's stronghold single-handedly to seize control of the port.

He returned with two gunshot wounds to his abdomen, yet he grinned as he slapped the port ownership documents down in front of me.

"Anna, from now on, all cargo passing will go through me."

He proposed to me by lining a path on a Christmas with nine hundred and ninety dewy white roses-roses he'd personally picked from a flower field in Queens, their petals still bearing the calluses of his fingertips.

As he knelt on one knee, the ring box in his hand was jet-black, and the diamond ring inside was encrusted with tiny diamonds, glinting like the scope on his gun.

"The meaning of my life," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the back of my hand, his voice deep and resolute, "is to become the man who can stand beside you through every storm of blood."

The anesthetic began to wear off, and a dull throb spread across my chest.

Daniel's love for me was like the pistol he kept tucked in his suit jacket-scorching hot, deadly, yet utterly intoxicating.

But even the sharpest gun can misfire someday.

"Miss?"

The butler's voice pulled me back to reality.

He held a silenced pistol in his hand, its barrel polished to a gleaming shine.

"Daniel's back."

I glanced down at my chest.

The skin there had been perfectly replaced-the original flesh had been branded with "slut," a cruel mark left by Lola.

Now the new skin was slightly pink and smooth, not a trace of the old scar left behind.

Daniel pushed the door open.

He wore a black trench coat, a faint bloodstain smudged on the collar, and carried several shopping bags emblazoned with luxury brand logos.

His face wore that familiar smile.

He set the bags on the nightstand and reached out to touch my face.

"Anna, Lola went too far today," he said casually, as if talking about something trivial.

"I bought you a new necklace. Don't bother yourself with her."

The mansion's medical team had already left, leaving only a few bodyguards in black suits standing guard.

Daniel noticed nothing amiss,he had no idea I'd ordered the butler to dig up Lola's past, and he had no idea I'd slipped a slow-acting poison into her coffee.

He opened the jewelry box, and the diamond inside blazed with brilliant light.

"I promise she won't bother you again."

When he mentioned Lola, his tone held a hint of unintended tenderness.

I stared at the multi-million-dollar Patek Philippe on his wrist, and my mind drifted back to that Christmas night when he was eighteen.

Back then, he'd worn a cheap plastic watch with a frayed strap.

The frayed collar of his white shirt had been replaced with a silk one embroidered with the family crest.

Even the cologne he wore was the exact same scent that lingered in Lola's hair.

"Anna?"

He frowned when I didn't reply, stepping closer.

The hem of his trench coat brushed against the vase on the bedside table, making a soft clinking sound.

Suddenly, Lola burst into the room.

She wore a red dress, a bandage wrapped tightly around her chest, and stumbled into Daniel's arms.

Her hair was disheveled, tears streaked her face.

"Daniel! She had her men hold me down and cut the skin off my chest! You promised you'd protect me!"

Daniel's breath hitched visibly.

He stared at the bandage on Lola's chest, then at my smooth.

His Adam's apple bobbed violently.

"Anna, what have you become? You're so cruel now."

"Where was her sense of cruelty when she branded those filthy words on my skin? Taking a piece of hers in return is only fair."

Daniel opened his mouth, but no words came out.

He knew exactly who Lola was, yet he'd kept her around.

Lola snuggled deeper into his arms, screaming at the top of her lungs.

"Daniel! I'm carrying your baby! You can't let her kill our child! Take me away!"

Daniel froze.

He stared down at Lola's belly, then back at me.