The Mafia Sweetheart I Own His Heart He Own My Body

The first sign something was wrong wasn't a fight, but a cheerful Chime-Chime-Pop from my sister Lily' s phone, a sound I' d never heard before, buzzing with secrets during family dinner.

Later, while I painstakingly helped Lily with her biology homework-a subject I'd aced, she struggled with-that same chime rang out again, punctuated by her casual lie: "Just Mom."

But Mom's text tone was different, and the metallic taste of a familiar coldness spread through me as my suspicion grew.

Then, Lily giggled, phone in hand: "Dad just sent that meme of the cat freaking out. He said it' s you trying to explain biology to me."

My blood ran cold as I watched her oblivious smile; the pieces clicked with sickening finality.

A secret group chat – "Family Trio" – Mom, Dad, and Lily-bug.

Not me.

The next morning, armed with a lie and an opportune request for a bakery address, I unlocked my mother's phone with Lily's birthday, and there it was: "Family Trio", pinned at the top.

Hundreds of messages, photos of trips I knew nothing about, jokes about my "seriousness," complaints about my work schedule, and coordinating their financial demands: "Had to give Chloe another hundred bucks for her books. When does she start paying us back?" "Don' t forget, Chloe, we need you to chip in for the property tax bill next month. It' s a big one."