Owned by the Italian Mafia Don

Table of Contents Owned by the Italian Mafia Don CONTENT WARNING Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Epilogue Owned by the Italian Mafia Don By Rosalie Rose All Rights Reserved. Copyright 2023 Rosalie Rose This story is a work of fiction and any portrayal of any person living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended. CLICK HERE to subscribe to my newsletter & get EXCLUSIVE updates on all offers, secret previews, and new releases! CONTENT WARNING This story is intended for mature readers and contains themes that may be sensitive to some, including violence and mentions of blood and killing. Chapter One Rosie Life gets harder as I get older and I’m getting tired of it. My family’s dream is exhausting and, a long time ago it used to be mine too; but after running myself ragged, after being too exhausted to do anything other than work and sleep, their dream is no longer mine. My parents own a general store called O’Connor’s. It’s named after our family and, when they were young, the shop did really well; but now, people buy what they need online, and the business my parents poured blood, sweat, and tears into, is failing. I don’t see us making it another year. Medical bills are behind. The rent is two months past due and the only reason our landlord is not evicting us is because he has known my parents for thirty years. If it weren’t for that, we’d be sleeping in this store. Something has to change. Even right now, the electricity in my parents’ apartment is off, and I need to scrounge another fifty dollars to get it turned on. My eyes begin to burn with frustrated tears, and I stop moving boxes to try and catch my breath. Pressing my palms against my eyes I take a deep breath, but my emotions are too strong. I’m too damn tired. I’m so sick of caring, but I have to, and I feel like I’m the only one who gives a shit about this business, too. My parents don’t come here. My brother is always off doing who knows what and I’m left here, trying my damn best to make ends meet. I’m not sure how much longer I can do this before I break, before I quit, but what kind of person would that make me if I quit on my family? I can’t do that to them even though they have done it to me. They left me with this store and now I’m stuck unless I want my family to be homeless. “It’s okay. You’re okay. It won’t be like this forever. You’re fine. This is temporary.” It’s something I always end up saying to myself, hoping one day I’ll believe it. It isn’t that easy though. I’ve been saying it for years and the situation only ever gets worse. A box falls to the ground, flour bags spilling all over the floor, and it’s the last straw. I scream, kicking the box and the flour bags. White dust flies everywhere. I yell with every ounce of air I have in my lungs until I run out of breath. I sob, sliding down the front desk until I hit the floor. Flour somehow got on my hands, but I don’t care. I hide my face in my palms while I cry. I no longer have the energy to do this. I no longer have the will to be the only one keeping my family afloat. When do my hopes matter? When do my dreams and wants matter? No one has ever cared. It’s always been about me taking care of them. I’ve dedicated everything. I’ve drained my savings account to keep food on the table and electricity running in the home. I have nothing to my name now because they had nothing to theirs. All those jobs worked when I was younger, every dime pinched and saved in hopes to buy my own house one day, gone. I know I’m bitter. I know that. I know I’m selfish and I’m being a bad daughter and sister, but when do I stop being all that for them, and where does that leave my family? I can’t stop, right? I can’t stop being what they need me to be. It isn’t fair to them. But it isn’t fair to me either. The back of my head hits the counter and the sharp, but quick pain, has me opening my eyes. I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand, flour clumping together on my skin from added moisture. Something has to give. Or break. And it’s me. I’m the one breaking. I look around at the mess I made and new tears begin to form. Why should I bother cleaning it up? It’s not like any customers will come into the store. “Come on, Rosie. Get your shit together. You won’t let this beat you.” I give myself a nice pep talk, the same one I give more often than not, because lately it seems like everything is hard, everything in this world takes every ounce of fucking energy I have. I know I’m not the only one. It’s like this for a lot of people right now. I take another look around the shop; flour is still everywhere. I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps, it would magically disappear? I groan, hang my head, and rub my temples as a headache pulses. The slight outburst of anger wasn’t worth it because the flour isn’t going to clean itself up. “You’re done with your pity party,” I tell