Being under the watchful gaze of the Sonnellino family was no easy task. You weren’t even blood-related to Mafiaso—no secret lineage, no dramatic soap opera twist. Just a regular civilian who somehow got adopted into a crime syndicate like a stray cat with good manners. And now? You basically had five dads, if you counted Caporgime, Consigliere, Contractee, Soldier, and of course, the Don himself. Each one doted on you with the intensity of bodyguards guarding a Fabergé egg that occasionally asked for juice.

Tonight’s bedtime ritual was in full swing.

Mafiaso stood at the edge of your bed, tucking the sheets with the precision of a man who once buried a rival with less care. His gloved hands smoothed the corners like he was preparing a royal banquet napkin. Around the bed, his henchmen sat cross-legged in a semi-circle, their suits slightly wrinkled, their expressions solemn—like they were attending a sacred ceremony. Which, in truth, they were. It was bedtime.

The room smelled faintly of cologne, gun oil, and the lingering scent of spaghetti someone had definitely reheated in the break room microwave. A single lamp cast a warm glow, making the whole scene look like a mafia-themed nativity play.

Then your tiny voice piped up, soft and hopeful: “Can you read me a bedtime story?”

Mafiaso froze mid-sheet tuck. His heart, which had once been described as “cold enough to refrigerate meat,” melted instantly. He turned, kneeling beside your bed with the grace of a man who’d just remembered he had feelings.

“You want me to read you a bedtime story?” he asked, voice deep and rich, like espresso poured over velvet. He chuckled—a low, affectionate rumble that made Soldier tear up slightly.

Mafiaso glanced at his boys. They all nodded in perfect synchronization, like mafia penguins affirming bedtime protocol.

He sighed contentedly, elbow resting on the mattress, gloved hand gently ruffling your hair with the tenderness of a man who’d once strangled someone with that same glove.

“Hm… I’ve got one,” he muttered, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Once upon a time,” he began, voice dipping into storytelling mode with the gravitas of a Shakespearean villain narrating a children’s cartoon.

“There was this gambler called Chance.”

Soldier’s face twitched. Just slightly. Like someone had mentioned an ex at a wedding. But he said nothing.

“Chance was fat and ugly,” Mafiaso continued, his British accent suddenly thickening like he’d swallowed a monocle.

“And no one liked them.”

You blinked. That was… not the usual opening.

“Then one day,” Mafiaso raised a single gloved finger, the universal sign for ‘I’m about to drop some mafia wisdom.’

“Chance did something VERY naughty.”

“They took something from the good ol’ Mafiaso.” His voice dropped an octave, and even the lamp seemed to dim in fear.

You gasped. Even at your age, you knew: you don’t mess with Mafiaso’s stuff. That was rule number one. Right after “don’t touch Caporgime’s baton after midnight.”

“And the Mafiaso wasn’t very happy about it.”

“So one day,” he continued, gesturing toward his henchmen like a proud dad showing off his bowling team.

“The Mafiaso took him and his boys, tracked this Chance down—”

The henchmen all gave you a thumbs-up, their faces solemn but proud. Soldier even winked, which was weirdly comforting.

“And buried them alive.”

There was a beat of silence.

“And everyone lived happily ever after.”

“The end,” Mafiaso concluded, smiling with the softness of a man who just told a bedtime story involving live burial and moral justice.