Modern family The mafia Don

Monday morning rolled in with cold skies and whispers.

But you didn't notice the clouds.

You walked into school like you were returning to your estate. Every step was measured. Every glance, calculated. The student body didn't fully understand it yet — but the energy had already changed. You weren't the new kid anymore.

You were the current running through the halls.

And people were beginning to feel the buzz.

You spotted Marcus Doyle in the east wing, near the vending machines where he always lingered. He was trying to look relaxed, but the second his eyes met yours, he straightened up like a kid standing in front of a loaded gun.

Behind him stood a bulky kid, fidgeting and trying too hard to act casual. You took note.

You approached.

"Marcus," you said, voice smooth as ice over steel.

"Boss," he said quickly.

You nodded toward his bag. "Inventory?"

He pulled out a crumpled ledger. "Vape pens. Flavored carts. Edibles. Couple micro-dose tabs. No fentanyl risk. Mid-tier stuff."

"And how much are you moving today?"

"Estimate… $1,200 by lunch."

You stared at him a moment, then turned your head slightly toward the rear field — the one behind the school where the trees grew wild and the fencing got patchy.

You pointed.

There, hidden near the edge of the grounds, was an old rusted shed, barely noticeable through the brush. Broken window. Faded paint. Forgotten by time.

"That's where the deals happen now."

Marcus turned, confused. "The shed?"

"It's not technically school property. No cameras. No patrols. No snitches."

He looked nervous. "Won't that look… shady?"

"It is shady, Marcus," you said, voice calm but firm. "That's why it stays quiet. From now on, your runners operate out of there. Anyone makes noise, they're done."

Marcus nodded, wide-eyed. "Got it."

Your eyes drifted to the bulky kid behind him — twitchy, sweating, shifting side to side like he was stuck between guilt and panic.

You tilted your head.

"He's still here?"

Marcus hesitated. "I… thought he'd be useful."

You stepped forward and slapped the kid across the face — not out of rage, but command. A correction. A reset.

"Walk with me," you said.

He obeyed instantly, tailing behind you as you moved behind the gym.

You stopped in the quiet corridor and turned slowly.

"You know why I hit you?"

He shook his head.

"Because you're embarrassing your father."

The boy stiffened. "Wait—what?"

"You're Donnie White. Son of Michael White. My father's lieutenant. A man who once broke four ribs for someone who disrespected the family name. And here you are… sweating like a rat over vape pens."

His jaw dropped. "You… knew my dad?"

"He bled for me," you said coldly. "For this."

You stepped closer, lowering your voice to a whisper that could slice through bone.

"I don't waste blood. But I don't carry dead weight either. So you've got one chance."

Donnie stood straighter. "I can do better."

"Then do better."

You jabbed a finger into his chest.

"You work for me now. Not Marcus. Me. You're my muscle around here. You see anything? Suspicious behavior. Product skimming. Loose lips. You shut it down. You move like a shadow. You hit like a hammer."

Donnie nodded. "Yes, boss."

You stepped away.

"And if you dishonor your father's name again, I'll bury you with it."

He didn't flinch. Just stood taller.

You clapped him once on the shoulder.

"Make your father proud, Donnie White."

The bell rang. But it didn't matter. You had already made your move.

The kingdom was shaping itself around you.

Now it was time to make the queen feel it.

Later – The Gym

The gym was chaos. Balls flying, kids yelling, coaches blowing whistles like they were warding off demons.

But you moved through it like a ghost in a tailored coat.

You spotted her instantly.

Alex Dunphy.

Hair in a braid. Baggy shirt. Glasses fogged from the heat.

But to you? She looked like clarity in a storm.

She didn't see you at first.

But when she did—when she turned and saw you approaching—her eyes widened just slightly.

You stopped in front of her.

And with that perfect, casual confidence — voice low, rich, and charged with intent — you said:

"Hello, beautiful."

You didn't smirk.

You didn't blink.

You let the words sit there between you, like a secret no one else deserved to hear.

She froze. Then blinked. Then blushed.

"You always make an entrance?" she asked.

You tilted your head slightly. "Only when the moment deserves it."

She gave a nervous laugh. "I'm in gym clothes. Sweaty. Gross. And you call me beautiful?"

You stepped closer, gaze locked.

"True beauty," you said softly, "has never cared for gym clothes."

That blush deepened.

And then… for the first time, she didn't hide it.

She smiled.

Not because she didn't believe it…

But because part of her was starting to.

The boy from the mansion.

The daughter of suburbia.

A kingdom built in silence.

A queen awakened in the fire.

And this?

Was only the beginning.