They Started Loving Me After I Died

Three torturous years hauling bodies on the mortuary night shift, and I'd finally scraped together the cash for my brother Charles's heart transplant.

But he waved it off without batting an eye.

"My heart is fine. Mom and Dad didn't die in that gang war, either. I ordered the hit on our own convoy. You were the only one who ended up broken."

My husband, Gerald Castello, clipped a cigar nearby, lighting it before making his own easy confession.

"I never went bankrupt, either. Every time I said the family business was in trouble and I had to lay low? Just an excuse. I couldn't stomach squeezing into that dingy funeral home dorm with you. I was at the Long Island Estate."

"I was going to punish you for another three years," Charles chimed in. "But that stench of formaldehyde and rotting flesh on you is nauseating. We couldn't take it anymore."

My hand froze, still clutching the credit card as a suffocating wave of absurdity choked me.

Charles plucked the plastic from my numb fingers, casually holding up his phone to my face.

A banking app stared back at me, showing a fresh transfer and a balance of exactly zero.

"As your brother, my name is still on your joint accounts," he sneered, tossing the worthless plastic into a nearby trash can. "I drained it this morning. That blood money you made bagging stiffs? My guys are handing it out to street junkies as we speak."

He dusted off his hands. "Profiting off corpses is a curse. We wouldn't dare touch money soaked in that filth."

Ice flooded my veins. Why?

The final thread of my sanity snapped when my parents walked in, flanked by bodyguards.

They kept their distance, eyeing me like I carried the plague.

"You thought being the biological daughter of this family gave you the right to ruthlessly bully Violet. We just wanted to teach you a lesson. Put you in your place."

"Swear you'll never cross Violet again, and you can remain a Falcone," my mother added coolly. "Otherwise, you're dead to us."

Through the suffocating void, my phone buzzed. A text from my oncologist.

[Mrs. Castello, the final test results are back. It's terminal. Do you consent to initiating the hospice and DNR protocol we discussed?]

I bit my cheek until it tore, copper flooding my throat. With trembling fingers, I typed back.

[I consent.]

The reply came seconds later.

[Understood. I am so sorry. Estimate: twenty-four hours at best.]

The screen went dark, and so did the edges of my vision. My legs buckled. I staggered backward, my spine colliding with the wall just to stay upright. Every breath felt like inhaling crushed glass.

Mistaking my physical collapse for submission, Gerald stepped forward, swiping a tear from my cheek. "See your mistakes now? If you hadn't been so jealous of Violet, we could have been a happy family."

I slapped his hand away, a sickening spasm ripping through my chest.

"You don't get to talk about family!" I shrieked, the effort tearing my throat raw.

I clung to the wall, my chest heaving violently as I glared at him. "That bitch Violet called the hit! My son died because of her!"

Gerald tapped his cigar, unnervingly calm. "Our son didn't die. I took him to the estate the day he was born and gave him to Violet. Stop spinning hysterical lies."

My throat seized. It took agonizing seconds to force out a broken whisper. "What did you just say?"

Gerald stated it like a simple fact. "Ethan is the Castello heir. You think I'd let him trail around a morgue, watching his bottom-feeding mother haul corpses? Violet is refined. Giving him to her was best."

I stood paralyzed, blood draining from my face. 

When I woke from the explosion three years ago with shattered bones, Gerald sat at my bedside. 

With red-rimmed eyes, he blamed my stubbornness. He convinced me that ditching our security detail let rivals plant the bomb—that I had caused my stillbirth and my parents' fiery deaths.

Charles seemingly gave up on life too, drinking himself into severe heart failure. 

When my cancer was diagnosed three years ago, it was treatable. But faced with his failing heart and Gerald's grief over our baby, I couldn't choose myself.

I refused chemo, dragging my failing body into the freezing morgue for three brutal years to save them.

Now, I was terminal. And my entire sacrifice was just a sick joke they'd plotted together.

Tremors wracked my chest, defiant tears burning my eyes. "If that's true... why not just lie to me until the day I die?"

"Because Violet wants a daughter."

Charles's voice bled unapologetic affection. "But she's terrified of childbirth. So, you'll be her surrogate."

I stared at the room full of psychopaths.

Gerald raked his gaze over my hollowed frame, stroking my hair like a pet. "Stop playing the dying victim. You're a walking corpse. We'll lock you in the medical wing and pump you full of nutrients until you're fit to carry."

"Violet's childhood was tragic enough. Be a good girl, give her this, and prove to our parents you finally accept her."

A surrogate?

I had twenty-four hours to live, and they wanted to pump a corpse full of nutrients to carry a child. The absurdity made me want to laugh until I choked on my own blood.

WHO was tragic?

I'd never forget being locked in that moldy, pitch-black room in the slums. Red-hot fireplace tongs pressed into my arms. The sickening sizzle of flesh. My convulsions and ear-piercing screams. 

Whenever I cried for my mother, my junkie foster mom would slap me and sneer, "Who the fuck are you calling Mom, little bitch? My daughter's in your precious Family estate right now, soaking up the Donna's love in your place!"

I violently shoved up my sleeves, exposing the jagged burn scars snaking up my forearms. 

"Who's tragic?!" I screamed. "You swore you'd make those traffickers pay in blood! You promised I'd never suffer—"

"Cecilia! Stop spinning this bullshit!" Charles swatted my arm away. 

Hollowed out by cancer and malnutrition, I couldn't brace myself. I stumbled backward, my side smashing into a stainless-steel medical table. 

"Violet's biological mother made a deathbed confession to a priest. No one abused you in the slums. Those scars? You got them street-brawling with Brooklyn lowlifes!"

My biological parents watched in disgust. "As expected. A street rat will always be a street rat. Setting you up three years ago was the right call. A pathological liar could never raise a child properly."

I stared at my own biological family, bile surging in my throat. 

"I can't raise him? But a trafficker's daughter can?"

"Shut your mouth!" Charles roared. "How dare you? Do you know how much that would break Violet's heart?"

He lunged, gripping my shoulders like vises. 

"It seems three years wasn't enough. You still haven't learned a damn thing!"