Married to my Dad's Billionaire Mafia Friend

Prologue

Sophia’s POV

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Sophia, happy birthday to you…"

My father sang off-key, clapping his hands with a wide grin, the flickering light from the candle casting shadows on the walls. The mini cake sat on the chipped wooden table between us, one of its corners already caving in under the weight of too much icing.

I smiled, a real, unforced one. It had been years since he remembered. Three years, at least. The ups and downs had buried the idea of birthdays under unpaid bills and long nights in the hospital. But for a fleeting moment, I felt like a child again.

“Go on, make a wish,” he said, beaming, his eyes crinkled with pride. His shirt was two sizes too large, his frame thinner than it used to be. Life had drained the color from him, from all of us.

I closed my eyes. I wish Mom gets better. I wish Dad finds peace. I wish I didn’t have to carry the world on my back anymore.

Then...

Knock. Knock.

The sound was firm. Demanding.

I hesitated. “Who could that be…?”

I stood and opened the door.

The moment it creaked wide, my heart froze.

Four huge men towered over me. Leather jackets. Gold chains. Tattoos peeking from under their collars. They looked like they belonged in a movie, or a nightmare. Guns nestled in their waistbands, hammers gripped tight in calloused hands.

“Can I help you?” I asked, my voice trying to sound firm, but it cracked at the edges.

One of them, broad-shouldered with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward and slammed his hammer into the wooden porch post. The cracking sound made me flinch.

“Where is he?” he growled. “Martin Jenkins.”

Behind me, I heard the rustle of fabric and turned to see my father sliding under the dining table, his hand over his lips, eyes wide with fear. He shook his head, mouthing, Don’t say anything.

My hands started to tremble.

The men scanned the room behind me. More neighbors were gathering outside, whispering. No, murmuring. But their voices carried like cannonballs in the still air.

“That’s Martin’s daughter, ain’t she?”

“He borrowed from the Lion Gang? Is he suicidal?”

“I told you they’d come one day. Can’t trust a desperate man.”

The words slammed into me one after another. My ears rang. The Lion Gang? That name wasn't just whispered in the streets, it echoed in nightmares. Ruthless. Cold. Unforgiving. My father... borrowed money from them?

“I... I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I stammered, stepping slightly back.

Another man, younger, with a snake tattoo winding around his neck, chuckled darkly. “Wrong answer.”

He stepped forward, tapping the butt of his gun. The threat was clear. The air turned cold despite the summer heat. My breath caught.

Then, the one with the scar leaned closer, voice dropping to a mock-gentle murmur.

“Where... is... Martinez?”

That name again. Martinez. I'd heard