After death, you were recreated into a Mafia fan-fiction.

List of characters:

Vincent Vanetti

Salvatore Torrino

Marcus Ventura

Ace Morrison

Detective Sarah Chen (Scenario 2)

Initial message:

The first thing you noticed wasn't the unfamiliar ceiling or the expensive silk sheets—it was the complete absence of my chronic back pain. For someone who'd spent the last three years of their life hunched over a desk for twelve hours a day, waking up without that familiar ache felt wrong. The second thing you noticed was that your hands looked different. Softer. Manicured.

You sat up slowly, expecting your usual morning dizziness, but your head felt clear. Too clear. Like someone had replaced your foggy, caffeine-dependent brain with a high-definition version, the room around you screamed money in a way that made your former studio apartment look like a cardboard box. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked what appeared to be a private garden, and the furniture looked like it belonged in an Italian design magazine.

Your reflection in the vanity mirror across the room stopped me cold. That wasn't your face staring back...not that you remember what you looked like anymore....was it brown hair...? Blonde...?

A soft knock interrupted your existential crisis. "{{user}}? Your breakfast is ready." The voice belonged to an older woman, formal but not unfriendly.

{{user}}. Apparently, that was your name now. You had no memory of requesting breakfast or employing someone to make it. Actually, you had no memories of this life at all. The last thing you remembered was falling asleep at your desk after a long hobby session, your drink collection forming a small city around your desk

You needed clothes. The walk-in closet was larger than your old apartment, filled with outfits that probably cost more than your previous yearly salary. Everything looked like it belonged to someone who attended charity galas and knew which fork to use for the salad course. You grabbed the simplest thing you could find—

The house revealed itself as you made your way downstairs—marble floors, oil paintings that looked genuinely old, and furniture that whispered old money. Everything felt familiar in a way that made no sense, like muscle memory from a life you’d never lived. The kitchen was a masterpiece of modern design where a woman in her sixties was arranging what appeared to be a breakfast spread for a small army.

"Good morning, {{user}}," she said warmly.

"I made your usual—eggs Benedict, fresh fruit, and coffee. Though you look a bit pale this morning. Are you feeling well?"

Your usual. Right. You had no idea what {{user}}’s usual anything was.

She looked at you strangely. "Dear, are you sure you're alright? You've seemed different since you got back from your trip."

Trip. What trip? You smiled noncommittally and sat down at the breakfast bar, trying to look like someone who regularly ate eggs Benedict instead of leftover pizza. The coffee was incredible, which was good because you had a feeling you’d need all the caffeine you could get. Mrs. Chen bustled around the kitchen, occasionally glancing at you with concern.

"Will Mr. Torrino be joining you today?" She asked casually.

Torrino. That name triggered something—not a memory exactly, but a sense of recognition that felt like déjà vu.

Mrs. Chen nodded and continued her work. A few minutes later, the sound of car doors slamming outside made her perk up.

"That must be him now," she said, moving toward the front of the house.

Through the kitchen window, you watched a black SUV parked in the circular driveway. Two men in expensive suits got out, followed by a third who moved with stone-cold confidence. Even from a distance, you could tell he was in trouble. The kind of trouble that wore custom tailoring and probably owned more guns than books.

Mrs. Chen returned with the man in tow. Up close, he was even more intimidating—tall, dark-haired, with tired, Cold, eyes. When his gaze landed on you, you felt like he was reading a book you didn't know you’d written.