I Was Killed on My Birthday, and My Mother Called Me a LiarChapter 1
On the day a street enforcer threw acid in my face, my mother was at my cousin's coming-of-age ceremony at the Ferraro estate.
Ironically, it was also my birthday.
Dying, I sent my mother a desperate voice message for help. She shot back a text: [Stop playing these games for attention. You don't fool me.]
That same night, Mom got called back to handle an internal inquiry — a woman's body had been found on Ferraro territory.
The body was beyond recognition, and her limbs were mutilated.
For three straight days and nights, Mom pieced together that the victim had suffered unspeakable abuse and died in utter despair.
She cursed the killer's cruelty.
What she didn't realize was that the dead woman was me, the daughter she hated.
They found my body three days later in a trash pile at the waterfront market, deep inside Ferraro territory.
It reeked so bad that a stray dog sniffing around for food started barking like crazy.
A Family associate on patrol, alerted by the noise, discovered the disfigured corpse. He made one call. Within the hour, the compound knew.
Quickly, the Family assembled an enforcement detail under La Giustizia, led by my mother, Gianna Ferraro.
When my mother arrived at the scene, she looked upset. Her crew, aware she had taken a personal day, murmured apologies. "Donna Ferraro, we know you were off for your daughter's feast day. But this one landed on our territory. If we don't handle it before the Feds catch wind, the Commission will have questions. You're the best we've got."
Mom's expression softened slightly, but she didn't clarify that she had actually been at her niece Serafina Marchetti's ceremony, not her daughter's. She treated Serafina as her own.
Despite her years running La Giustizia, Mom appeared pale and gravely serious at the scene. Two soldiers flanked the perimeter. No one spoke above a murmur.
"Looks like she went through hell before she died," Mom muttered, examining the body's wounds.
Her face twisted in anger as she spat out, "Asshole. So damn cruel."
There I was, silently watching over my own corpse. Even as a spirit, the memories of my final torment brought pain and fear. My hand drifted to my throat, reaching for the pendant that used to hang there — the one engraved V.F. — and closed around nothing.