"Sorry, Keila. You won't be joining your brother and me for the Mafia crowning event," her father said, his voice cold and final.
"Dad—I..." Keila tried to speak, but he cut her off.
"No, Keila. Girls aren't allowed in there. Your brother Ricky and I will attend. Stay home, and go shopping or something—buy whatever you want."
And just like that, the line went dead.
Keila stared at her phone screen in disbelief, then let out a frustrated groan and dropped onto her bed. Her chest rose and fell with anger.
"Why does it have to be Rick?" she muttered to herself, gripping her pillow. "He's soft, gentle... he'd rather be at a spa than in a mafia meeting!"
Keila Massimo, the only daughter of the Massimo Mafia bloodline, had dreamt of stepping into that dark, ruthless world since she was four. For sixteen years, she had begged her father to let her attend just one major event. And every time, she got the same answer: No.
Now, at twenty, she was no longer asking.
Her brother Ricky—openly gay, sweet, and delicate—was never interested in the mafia legacy. Yet, he was always chosen, simply because he was a boy.
Keila wasn't angry at Ricky. She loved him. But this... this felt like betrayal. Again.
And tonight's event wasn't just any gathering. It was the Mafia Crowning—a once-in-a-decade tradition that determined the future heads of the underworld.
"No one ever sees me," she whispered. "But they will."
Her eyes landed on the strange, glowing stone sitting on her desk. A family heirloom. One her grandmother swore could grant wishes… or curses.
A wild, reckless idea sparked in her mind.
If the world only respects boys—then tonight… she'd become one.
Keila sat up slowly, her eyes still locked on the stone. It wasn't just any rock. Her grandmother used to say it was cursed—or blessed—depending on who used it.
"That stone has done the impossible, Keila," Grandma always said with a spooky smile. "It listens. But be careful what you wish for..."
At the time, Keila rolled her eyes. Now? She was desperate enough to try anything.
She got off the bed and walked over to her desk. The stone sat there quietly, pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own. No buttons. No instructions. Just smooth, dark crystal.
She picked it up and held it tight in her hand. Her fingers trembled slightly.
"Okay," she whispered, her voice shaky. "You wanna hear a wish?"
She closed her eyes and took a breath.
"I wish... to become a freaking hot, tattooed, dangerously handsome guy. Like, pretty-boy level hot. The kind of guy who gets in with one look. The kind of guy who belongs in a mafia room—no questions asked."
Nothing happened at first. Just silence.
Then—heat.
A weird warmth spread through her palm. Her heart skipped. She tried to drop the stone—but it stuck to her hand. Her body jerked, like it had been plugged into electricity. Her vision blurred, her knees hit the floor, and everything spun.
Her skin burned. Her bones cracked. Her voice caught in her throat.
She couldn't scream.
Then—darkness.
When she opened her eyes again, everything felt… wrong.
Her shirt was tight around her shoulders. Her body felt taller. Her voice—deeper. And when she stumbled to the mirror—
She gasped.
Broad chest. Sculpted jaw. Tattoos trailing down muscular arms. Tousled dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. A dangerously hot face that could make anyone stare twice.
She looked like the kind of guy your parents warned you about.
"Holy hell," she whispered, blinking at her reflection.
Only it wasn't her anymore.
She was gone.
He had arrived..
"Okay," she whispered, swallowing hard. "This is real. I have a d—"
She stopped herself.
She didn't even want to say it out loud.
Her cheeks flushed as she backed away from the mirror and looked down at her body.
Everything felt new, heavy and strange. She held her arms out, flexed a little—damn, those muscles looked real. But then her eyes dropped to the problem.
She had nothing to wear. Her tank top was now stretched and clinging in all the wrong places, and her shorts barely fit around her thighs. And... underneath?
She was not ready to deal with that part yet.
"Nope. No time to freak out," she muttered, trying to keep her cool. "If I'm gonna pull this off, I need to dress the part."
Which meant one thing—dad's closet.
She crept out of her room like a ninja, heart racing. The hallway was quiet, the house still. She prayed her dad wasn't home yet. His bedroom door creaked as she pushed it open, and she slipped inside like a thief.
The smell of his cologne hit her immediately—strong, masculine, expensive.
She went straight for the wardrobe and yanked it open.
"Please let there be something clean," she whispered, rummaging through his suits.
She found a black tux, perfectly pressed. Then grabbed a white shirt, a belt, and—yes!—a fresh pair of boxers still in the wrapper. Thank God her dad had a thing for buying underwear in bulk.
"This feels so wrong," she muttered, clutching the clothes and heading for the guest bathroom. "But also kind of badass."
In the bathroom, she stood for a moment, staring at the boxers in her hand like they were explosives.
"Okay, Keila. You've seen guys change in movies. You can do this."
Changing was awkward. So awkward. She did everything with her eyes half-closed, avoiding the mirror as much as she could. But once she had everything on—and adjusted the belt just right—she looked back up at herself.
And froze.
She looked… legit.
The tux hugged her new frame like it was tailored. Her jaw looked sharp, her tattoos peeked out from under the sleeves, and the white shirt made her skin glow.
No one would ever believe she was once Keila Massimo.
She looked like the kind of guy who didn't wait for permission. Who walked into mafia rooms like he owned them.
She looked like she belonged.
With one last look in the mirror, she smirked.
"Let's crash a crowning."