The Mob Queen Wants to Claim Me for Herself (In a Reverse World)

I’m already awake when the first rays of morning sunlight filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the penthouse in golden hues. My left eye finally on the verge of being normal, the bruise now a faded yellowish-purple smudge.

She’s sitting across from me at the breakfast bar, already dressed in one of her immaculate white suits, golden hair pulled back in a tight ponytail that emphasizes the sharp angles of her face. Her crimson eyes haven’t left me since we sat down, watching me with an intensity that makes the simple act of eating cereal feel like a performance.

I focus on the bowl in front of me, methodically spooning colorful loops into my mouth. The sweet, artificial taste is comforting in its familiarity, a small island of normalcy in the ocean of insanity my life has become. The milk turns pastel as the dye bleeds from the cereal, creating a rainbow swirl that I find myself staring at for too long.

“Are you sure you’re okay to be alone today?” Caterina asks, breaking the silence that’s stretched between us all morning. Her voice is gentle, concerned, so at odds with the woman who calmly watched a hand being severed less than twenty-four hours ago. “How about you come with me to the casino? I can set you up in an office near mine, and you can just watch your little Elden Souls YouTube videos.”

‘She’s trying, and if she wasn’t a monster, that’d be cute.’

I look up from my cereal, meeting her worried gaze with what I hope passes for a reassuring smile. My stomach churns with something that has nothing to do with the sugary breakfast and everything to do with the plan half-forming in my mind.

“No, no, I feel a lot better,” I lie, the words coming out smoother than I expected. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

‘I need to be alone today if I’m going to figure out how to escape.’

Caterina studies my face, those unsettling crimson eyes searching for any sign of deception. I maintain my smile, willing my expression to remain open and honest despite the frantic pace of my thoughts.

“You’re not still upset about what happened at the restaurant?” she presses, reaching across the granite countertop to place her hand over mine. Her touch is warm, her skin soft despite the violence those hands are capable of inflicting.

I shake my head, forcing a small laugh that sounds hollow even to my own ears. “I mean, it was intense,” I admit, figuring a partial truth will be more convincing than a complete lie. “But I understand that’s part of your business.”

‘Part of your business that I want absolutely no part in.’

Her expression shifts subtly, a flicker of something like relief passing across her features. The tension in her shoulders eases slightly, though not entirely.

“Alright, honey,” she says finally, but there’s a hesitancy in her voice that wasn’t there before. Her crimson eyes keep searching my face as if trying to read something written in invisible ink beneath my skin. “If you need me, just call or text, okay? I’ve got meetings until noon, but I can cancel them if you need me to come back.”

The concern in her voice would be touching if it weren’t coming from someone I assume is complicit in the murders of dozens, if not more, people.

“I’ll be fine,” I assure her, reaching across to squeeze her hand in what I hope passes for affection rather than desperation. “Really. I might explore the penthouse a bit more. Check out all those books in your office. Maybe watch some TV.”

She brightens at this, seemingly reassured by the mundanity of my planned activities.

“There’s food in the fridge,” she says, rising from her seat and smoothing down her already perfect suit. “The chef left several meals that just need to be heated.”

I stand too, following her as she gathers her things, a sleek leather briefcase, her phone, the small handgun she tucks into an inside pocket of her jacket with the casual ease of someone picking up their keys. The normalcy with which she arms herself makes my stomach twist.

“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” I offer, placing my half-empty cereal bowl in the sink.

We move together through the penthouse, our footsteps silent on the plush carpet.

At the elevator, she turns to face me, reaching up to straighten the collar of my t-shirt with gentle fingers. Her touch lingers, trailing down to rest over my heart. I wonder if she can feel it racing beneath her palm, betraying the calm exterior I’m fighting to maintain.

“Have a good day at work,” I say, the normality of the phrase almost making me laugh. As if she’s heading to a regular office job instead of whatever violent business awaits her.

She goes in for a kiss, her body leaning into mine with practiced ease. Despite my churning thoughts about escape, I can’t help myself. I make the first move with my tongue, deepening the kiss before she can. My body betrays my mind, responding to her with an eagerness that disgusts and thrills me in equal measure.

She tastes like coffee and cinnamon, her tongue dancing with mine in that perfect rhythm she’s mastered. Her hands cup my face, holding me in place as if afraid I might pull away. My fingers find her waist, pulling her closer despite everything I know, everything I’ve seen.

‘God, she’s the best kisser I’ve ever met,’ I think, hating myself for the thought even as it forms.

The kiss lingers, stretches, becomes something more intense than a simple goodbye. Her breathing quickens against my lips, and I feel that familiar heat building between us, threatening to derail my entire morning, my entire plan.

When she finally pulls away, her crimson eyes are dark with desire. For a moment, she looks as though she might just skip her meetings, but through sheer force of will, she gets back to her normal self.

“I love you,” she says, the words tumbling from her lips with an overwhelming amount of conviction.

I nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I respond, the same answer I always give when she says those three words.

Disappointment fills her eyes yet again. I’ve yet to say it back. Those three simple words she seems to crave more than anything. Each time she tells me she loves me, I respond with “thank you,” as if she’s just complimented my shirt or held a door open for me.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. Caterina steps inside, her eyes never leaving mine as the doors begin to close between us. The last thing I see is her smile, a little sad around the edges, as the metal panels slide shut, leaving me alone in the penthouse.

I clap my hands together.

“Alright. Let’s get down to business…”

‘Don’t do it, Adam.’

“….” I groan inside, trying desperately to hold myself back.

I start singing despite my efforts not to.

“TO DEFEAT THE HUNS!”

*****

I lay on my stomach, stretching out across the massive king-sized bed with my feet kicked up behind me, ankles crossed in the air. The laptop screen glows softly in front of me as the credits roll on Mulan, listing names I don’t recognize from this world. The familiar music plays, but everything’s just slightly off.

“Fuck,” I mutter, shaking my head as I watch the last of the credits disappear. “The songs still slap, though.”

In this world, Mulan is the story of a young man disguising himself as a woman to join the emperor’s army, defying the expectations placed on men to stay home and care for their families. It’s weird, but the core message still works somehow.

I glance at my phone and groan, letting my head fall dramatically onto the plush comforter. “Ahh fuck, I wasted an hour and a half.”

I’ve been alone in the penthouse for nearly two hours, and what have I accomplished? Absolutely nothing beyond watching a gender-swapped Disney movie and eating three bowls of cereal.

“Focus, Adam,” I mutter to myself, sitting up and closing the laptop with more force than necessary. “You need a plan.”

I flop back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as my mind races through possibilities. The clock’s ticking.

“Okay, let’s think,” I say aloud, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the empty penthouse. “I could grab one of those passports and maybe, I don’t know, 250 thousand dollars and get on a plane to literally anywhere, right?”

The idea forms in my mind, crystallizing with each passing moment. A foreign country. A new identity. A life where no one cuts off hands during dinner.

“This is a genius plan,” I congratulate myself.

Then reality crashes in.

“FUCK!” I scream, the word echoing off the minimalist walls. “You can’t just take a backpack full of cash onto a plane!”

I pace across the plush carpet, running my hands through my hair. Even if I could somehow explain a quarter-million in cash to airport security, Caterina probably has contacts at every major transportation hub in the city. Her reach probably extends to private airfields, too.

My eyes catch the subway from a distance in the window. The Orange Line runs not far from here.

“Alright, alright,” I mutter, approaching the window. “I’ll take the subway to the commuter rail [A/N: Massachusetts train] and then take that to...”

I google a map of routes for the commuter rail. I think about possible routes with my finger, weighing options.

“Well, fuck the South Shore, so not that,” I mumble, shaking my head.”And western Mass is disgusting.”

I tap my finger on the map, following the commuter rail line north.

“Alright, I’ll take it to Beverly and then try to buy a car in cash off a stranger. Stay in a Hotel for a night or two.”

I nod to myself, a small smile forming. “Fucking smart, Adam. Wicked fucking smart dude.”

The plan starts taking shape in my mind. Get to Beverly, find someone selling a car, pay cash, drive... where? Canada, maybe? It’s close enough that I could make it in a day if I push it.

“If not I could just hide out in New Hampshire for like a year?” I whisper to myself in thought.

I start mentally cataloging what I’d need to bring. Clothes, toiletries, the passport.

I continue my pacing, the plan solidifying with each step. It’s not perfect, but it’s something. A direction. An escape route. I’d need to time everything perfectly, wait for Caterina to leave tomorrow morning, then…

My eyes catch on the laptop, still sitting on the rumpled comforter. The black screen reflects my harried expression back at me, and suddenly, the weight of everything crashes down on my shoulders.

I pull the computer onto my lap, fingers flying across the keyboard as I search for Mulan 2. The sequel wasn’t exactly a masterpiece in my world, but right now, I’d give anything for the mind-numbing comfort of mediocre animation and forgettable songs.

The search results pop up, and I click on the streaming link without hesitation. As the movie begins to load, I sink deeper into the pillows, arranging them in a nest around me like a comfort fort.

“Alright, I’ll follow through on this tomorrow the second she leaves,” I promise myself, hitting play. The familiar Disney castle appears on screen, though in this world, it’s topped with a feminine spire that looks vaguely phallic in a way that makes me snort with inappropriate laughter.

I smile, letting the movie wash over me. For just a little while, I can pretend I’m back in my old apartment, watching Disney movies on a lazy Sunday with Connor.

“God, I feel so alone,” I admit out loud, desperate not to cry.