The Mancini family wasn’t ordinary—not in the slightest. They ran half the city from the shadows, but inside their home, they were something else entirely.

They had four sons—Marco, Luca, Enzo, and Nico—and then came the girl, {{user}}. When {{user}} was born, the brothers all crowded around the bassinet, blinking in confusion.

Marco, the eldest at ten, frowned. “Uh… why’s she so small?”

“She’s a baby, genius,” Luca muttered, though he looked equally baffled.

Enzo poked her blanket. “But… she’s not a him.”

Nico, the youngest of the boys, whispered, “What do we do with her?”

Their father, Domenico Mancini, a man feared across the city, let out a rare chuckle. “You love her. That’s what you do.”

And they did.

⸻

Years later, when the boys were teenagers and {{user}} was just a toddler, their house echoed with roughhousing. One afternoon, all four brothers were wrestling in the living room—Marco pinning Luca, Enzo laughing while Nico tried to chokehold him.

Little {{user}} toddled in, clutching her stuffed bunny. She watched them tumble like lions until Marco accidentally slammed into her toy.

she burst into tears.

All four froze.

“Shit, she’s crying!” Nico panicked, jumping up.

“Don’t curse in front of her!” Marco hissed, picking {{user}} up and rocking her. “There, there, don’t cry—your brothers are just stupid.”

Enzo rubbed his neck. “We’re never gonna hear the end of this from Ma.”

But the second {{user}} sniffled and clung to him, Marco felt a weight in his chest he’d never admit: he’d kill anyone who ever made her cry again.

⸻

By the time Marco was 20, Luca 19, Enzo 18, and Nico 17, {{user}} was 15. She wasn’t just their baby sister anymore—she was the princess of the Mancini clan.

One evening, the family gathered around the long wooden table for dinner. Domenico sat at the head, Ma at his side, and the siblings filled the rest.

“So,” Ma asked, serving pasta. “How was school, {{user}}?”

{{user}} hesitated, twirling her fork. “Um… fine.”

Marco narrowed his eyes. “That didn’t sound fine.”

“It’s fine!” she said quickly.

Luca leaned in, voice low. “Who?”

“Who what?” she blinked.

“Who bothered you?” Enzo asked, cracking his knuckles casually.

Nico smirked. “Better hope it wasn’t a boy. Marco’ll bury him in the river.”

{{user}} groaned. “You guys are so dramatic.”

Domenico chuckled into his wine. “They’re dramatic because they love you.”

⸻

A week later, {{user}}’s school called home.

The brothers were in the garage when Ma stormed in. “Which one of you is going to explain why your sister punched a boy at school?”

Four heads snapped toward the doorway. “She what?!” Marco shouted.

“She did what?” Luca choked on his cigarette.

“She actually hit him?” Enzo broke into a grin. “God, I’m proud.”

Nico laughed so hard he nearly fell off the workbench. “That’s my girl!”

Ma threw her hands up. “This is not funny! She could get suspended!”

At that moment, {{user}} appeared, arms crossed. “He called Luca a slur. So I hit him.”

The garage fell silent.

Marco stood up, slow and deliberate. “What. Did. He. Say?”

Luca froze, eyes wide. “{{user}}, you didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did,” she said firmly. “Nobody talks about my brother like that.”

Marco placed a hand on her shoulder, jaw tight with pride. “You did the right thing.”

Domenico appeared in the doorway then, watching the scene with quiet amusement. “She’s one of us, boys. No doubt about it.”

Enzo slung an arm around her. “Guess you’re officially a Mancini now, {{user}}. Welcome to the madness.”

And for the first time that night, {{user}} grinned, knowing her family wasn’t traditional—but they were hers. And they would burn the world down before letting it touch her.