THE MAFIA'S FORGOTTEN SON

The laughter was louder than the music, Crystal goblets clinked against polished oak, silverware chimed in perfect rhythm, and the dining hall of the Tuna estate glittered with chandeliers that seemed to mock the man kneeling on the floor.

Denilson Franfurt’s hand trembled as he reached for the last piece of glass. It was jagged, cruel, and when his fingers closed around it, the shard sliced open his palm. Warm blood welled instantly, staining the spotless marble tiles red.

“Clumsy,” someone snickered.

“Honestly, Jenna, why keep a husband who can’t even handle a wine glass?” Another voice chimed in, followed by a wave of laughter.

Denilson didn’t look up. He never did. He let the laughter crash against him like an ocean tide, each wave washing over without resistance. The pain in his palm was nothing compared to the familiar ache in his chest.

At the head of the table sat his wife, Jenna Tuna, exquisite in emerald silk, her lips painted the same shade of red as the wine she sipped leisurely.

She didn’t laugh with the others. She didn’t defend him either. She simply looked past him, as though he were no more than a servant cleaning up a mess. His mess, Her mess, Their mess.

Denilson rose slowly, cradling the bloodied hand against his side. No one offered him a napkin. No one cared. He had been married into this family for five years, and in those five years, he had given them everything: his time, his energy, his career opportunities.

Yet here he stood, a shadow in a house that had never once called him “son.”

He turned to leave, but a voice halted him. “Denilson,” Jenna’s brother drawled, swirling his wine. “You’re dripping on the carpet. Be useful and fetch yourself a towel before you stain it,”Another ripple of laughter spread.

Denilson froze, the weight of humiliation pressing down on his shoulders. He wanted to answer, wanted to scream, but instead he nodded mutely and left the room, It was easier that way.

In the bathroom, he bandaged the wound with trembling fingers. His reflection stared back at him from the gilded mirror: tired eyes, sharp jawline dulled by resignation, a man who had learned the art of silence too well.

How much longer can I do this?, The thought was dangerous. Dangerous because it carried a hint of rebellion, a spark of defiance. And sparks, if left unchecked, could burn empires to ash, Still, the question lingered.

When he emerged again, the dinner was still in full swing. Jenna didn’t spare him a glance. She was leaning toward another man, tall, handsome, with a smile that reached only his lips. Their hands brushed on the table, subtle but intimate. Denilson’s chest tightened, He looked away.

Hours later, when the guests had gone and the house had grown quiet, he found himself standing at the balcony outside their bedroom. The night air was cold, the stars indifferent.

Behind him, laughter drifted again, but this time it wasn’t from the dining hall, It was from the bedroom, Jenna’s laughter, and a man’s.

Denilson’s breath caught. For a long moment, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. His blood turned to ice as realization sank in, He pushed the door open, The sight struck harder than any blade.

Jenna, tangled in silk sheets, her emerald dress discarded on the floor. The same man from dinner, his hands where they should never be, The world tilted.

Jenna’s eyes widened, but not with guilt with annoyance. “Denilson,” she snapped, as though he were an intruder. “Don’t you know how to knock? ”Her lover smirked, unashamed.

Denilson staggered back, the air knocked from his lungs. His throat burned with words he couldn’t form. He wanted to demand why. He wanted to scream her name until the walls cracked. Instead, he whispered, “I gave you everything.”

Jenna’s expression softened for the briefest moment pity, not remorse. Then her lips curled into a sneer. “And that’s why it was so easy. You were too busy giving to notice you had nothing left.” The words hit harder than betrayal.

Denilson turned, heart pounding, and walked away. He didn’t slam the door. He didn’t shout. He simply walked, And in that silence, something inside him broke.

He drove aimlessly through the city that night, past neon lights and shadowed alleys, his mind a storm. The humiliation, the betrayal, the years of quiet suffering all collided in his chest until he could barely breathe, he pulled over by the river.

The moonlight reflected on the dark water, steady and calm, a stark contrast to the chaos within him. He stared at his hands. One still bore the faint trace of blood from the glass shard.

The other trembled uncontrollably, A choice weighed heavy, He could return, pretend nothing happened, live as the hollow shell of a husband in Jenna Tuna’s shadow, or he could walk away.

For the first time in years, the second option didn’t feel like defeat. It felt like freedom, The phone buzzed in his pocket, Unknown number.

Denilson hesitated, then answered. “Hello?” A deep voice, smooth and commanding, filled the line. “So. The lost son finally awakens.”Denilson’s breath hitched. “Who is this?”

The voice chuckled. “Your blood has been patient, Denilson. Too patient. The time has come for you to stop crawling at the feet of those who mock you. You belong to us. And we will not be ignored any longer.” The line went dead.

Denilson stared at the phone, his pulse racing, The river whispered in the silence, Behind him lay betrayal. Ahead of him… something else. Something vast, dangerous, and inevitable.

For the first time in his life, Denilson felt the ground shift beneath his feet, not from weakness, but from power stirring, waiting to be claimed.

And somewhere, in the shadows of the city, forces he had long forgotten were already moving.