Modern family The mafia Don

The scent of charcoal still lingered in the air from Jay's barbecue the day before. The steaks were gone, the wine bottles emptied, and the smiles worn thin from forced family bonding.

But one thing still remained unspoken.

The secret only you knew.

Gloria Pritchett—no, Gloria Botero—had once ruled a bloody corner of Colombia. Before the dresses and jewelry and PTA meetings, she wore fear like perfume and ran with a gun holstered beneath her ribs.

The world had forgotten her.

But you hadn't.

And neither had your father—the man who smuggled her out of Medellín, faked her identity, and placed her in a new world under his protection.

And now, that legacy belonged to you.

That morning, the mansion was still. Seamus sat in the driveway cleaning his pistol. The staff had the day off. The silence was just how you liked it — total control.

You were standing near the lemon tree on the side lawn when she found you again.

Her heels crunched the gravel.

You didn't turn.

"Does anyone else know?" she asked softly.

You shook your head.

"No one. Not Jay. Not Claire. Not even your son."

Her voice trembled slightly. "Manny… he was a baby. He wouldn't have understood."

"He still doesn't," you said plainly. "He saw the smoke, but never the fire."

Gloria looked at you, the quiet wind catching her hair.

"I thought I buried that life," she whispered.

You turned to face her, your voice low.

"You didn't bury it. You just moved the body."

Her eyes watered — not from sadness. From memory.

You stepped closer.

"I'll never tell your secret. My father didn't. Neither will I."

She nodded slowly. "You speak like a man. Not a boy."

"I don't have the luxury of childhood," you said simply.

Then you added, "I know why you came here. And I know what it cost you."

A long pause.

Then:

"Will you protect her?" she asked quietly.

You didn't ask who. You already knew.

"I'd burn this city to ash before I let it touch her."

She looked at you — proud and haunted.

Two monarchs. Two survivors.

Only one crown left standing.

The next morning, you sent the text.

"Come alone. Dress simple. You'll understand why."

At 10:04 AM sharp, Alex arrived at your mansion.

She wore jeans, Converse, a hoodie, and her usual ponytail. Practical. Sharp. Focused.

You didn't kiss her. You didn't hug her.

This wasn't that kind of meeting.

You opened the door without a word and said:

"Follow me."

You led her down the basement stairs into the study.

No cobwebs. No clutter. Just a polished stone floor and a wall-to-wall presentation of your world.

Maps. Turf breakdowns. Surveillance photos. Cash flow charts. Laundering schemes. Smuggling paths. Front businesses. A digital dashboard showing every moving piece.

"This," you said, "is what I control."

She took a breath — not in fear.

But in awe.

"You're not scared," you said.

"No," she whispered. "I think I'm impressed."

Then she moved to the maps.

"You run this much through the city?"

"Some was inherited. The rest I took."

Her eyes scanned a folder on the Eastfield Vape crew.

"This route's inefficient. You're spending 18% more in fuel and manpower than needed. Reroute through LaBrea, and you'll cut it in half."

You raised an eyebrow.

She kept talking — spotting weakness after weakness, streamlining ideas your lieutenants hadn't thought of. She noticed the same flaws you had recognized in your father's era but had never corrected… until now.

"I always thought I'd work for the government," she murmured. "CIA, maybe. Solve the world's problems behind closed doors. But this… this is cleaner in a weird way. More honest."

You smirked. "Want the job?"

She turned, halfway grinning. "You testing me?"

"I always test people," you said. "But not just anyone gets invited down here."

Alex stepped closer.

And when she did, something shifted.

Her eyes locked on yours. Steady. Confident. Burning with something new.

You stepped forward, closing the space between you.

"I've never met anyone like you," she said quietly.

"I've never let anyone in like this," you replied.

Her fingers found the edge of your sleeve.

Yours slipped around her waist — strong, calm, protective.

Then she leaned in.

And kissed you.

It wasn't clumsy. It wasn't innocent.

It was real.

It was hers.

It was yours.

She gasped slightly when your lips traced the corner of her jaw. You backed her up gently to the desk, the blueprints rustling beneath her as your hands tangled in her hoodie and her fingers pulled you closer by the collar.

The maps and empires around you blurred.

For that moment — it was only fire and breath and want.

SLAM.

The front door echoed through the mansion like a gunshot.

You both froze.

Breathing heavy. Lips parted. Heartbeats still pounding.

From upstairs, Seamus shouted:

"Boss! We've got a situation! You'll want to see this!"

You looked into her eyes.

Flushed. Glowing. Beautiful. Yours.

You whispered:

"Pause. Not stop."

She smiled. "I'll be here."

You adjusted your collar. Straightened your shirt.

And walked toward the war waiting upstairs.

The kiss was lightning.

The interruption was thunder.

And you?

You were the storm.