1208 When the Billionaire Mafia Boss Accused His Pregnant Wife of Stealing Three Millions, She Walked Out—Only to Find the Real Thief Was Standing Beside Him All Along

The drive back to Chicago was silent, save for the rhythmic swish of the wipers against the windshield. Clara had been transferred to a secure safehouse two counties over under the protection of Aleandro's most trusted loyalists, but Emily refused to go anywhere except the North Side estate. Not because she felt safe there, but because she realized running had only given Isabella the terrain advantage.

When the wrought-iron gates of the estate swung open, the grand mansion looked entirely different than it had twenty-four hours ago. The exterior lights were blazing, and several unfamiliar black sedans were parked along the semicircular drive—vehicles belonging to the elder council of the Bellini syndicate, summoned by Aleandro at three in the morning.

As Emily stepped out of the car, she didn't wait for Aleandro to open her door. She pushed it open herself, her chin held high as she walked up the stone steps into the grand foyer.

Isabella was already waiting in the drawing room, sitting in a velvet armchair with her hands demurely folded in her lap, flanked by two senior capos who looked distinctly uncomfortable. When Isabella saw Emily walk in behind Aleandro—mud-spattered, exhausted, but breathing—the polite, concerned mask slipped from her face for a fraction of a second.

"Aleandro," Isabella said smoothly, rising from her chair. "Thank God. Marcus said there was an incident at the Oak Creek property. We were worried the intruders might have—"

"Quiet, Isabella," Aleandro said. His voice wasn't loud, but the absolute stillness in his tone caused both capos to instinctively take half a step backward.

He walked over to the mahogany desk, pulled the flash drive from his pocket, and dropped it onto the surface beside a heavy brass lamp.

"What is that?" Isabella asked, though a faint tremor in her lower jaw betrayed her attempt at nonchalance.

"That," Aleandro said, walking slowly toward her until he stood tower-tall above his sister, "is thirty-six months of your private correspondence with Vanguard Logistics, the Cayman trusts, and our competitors in Detroit."

Isabella's breath hitched, but she recovered quickly, smoothing the front of her silk blouse. "You're letting a pregnant stranger with a grudge feed you forged documents? Aleandro, look at her. She stole three million dollars and ran like a thief in the night. Now she comes back with a thumb drive she claims is magic? This is a fabrication designed to protect her own skin."

Emily stepped forward into the warm light of the chandelier. "It's not a fabrication, Isabella. And I didn't forge the audio file where you explain to Clara Vance how you planned to blame the missing port funds on the librarian your brother married."

Isabella turned her sharp gaze on Emily, her eyes flashing with venom. "You little parasite. You think you belong in this family? You think a few months of wearing diamonds makes you a Bellini? You were nothing before Aleandro plucked you out of the stacks, and you'll be nothing when he realizes you're playing him for every penny he's worth."

"Enough!"

The single word cracked through the room like a gunshot.

Aleandro didn't look at Isabella. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the diamond bracelet Emily had left on the marble table twenty-four hours ago, and laid it gently beside the flash drive.

Then he looked at Emily.

"You left this," he said quietly, his voice dropping the icy authority he used for the council and sounding, for the first time, like a man asking for forgiveness. "You said I didn't know the difference between loving someone and owning them."

Emily met his gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs. The room seemed to hold its collective breath.