His fiancée told the pregnant daughter that the mafia boss was ashamed of her, completely unaware that he had already hidden a baby crib in his mansion a month earlier.

Downstairs, the atmosphere had shifted from shocked silence to nervous, jagged whispering.

When Luca Moretti re-entered the grand ballroom, the murmurs died instantly. Thirty powerful men and women pretended to be deeply fascinated by their champagne flutes, terrified of catching the syndicate boss's eye.

At the center of the room, standing beside a tier of crystal champagne glasses, was Vanessa Bellini. She had regained some of her composure, her chin held high, though a thin sheen of sweat glistened on her powdered neck.

"Luca," she began smoothly, stepping forward with a brittle, rehearsed smile. "Thank goodness. I trust the girl has been escorted off the premises? Really, darling, we must get back to the toast before—"

Luca didn't answer her. He walked slowly, deliberately, the polished leather of his shoes clicking sharply against the marble floor. He stopped three feet away from her, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

"Vanessa," he said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the cavernous room. "Tell me about Maple Street."

Vanessa’s smile faltered, just for a microsecond. But she recovered quickly, tilting her head with playful annoyance. "Maple Street? Oh, Luca, are we really talking real estate portfolios on our engagement night? You’re obsessed."

"Answer the question," Luca replied. There was no warmth in his tone. No teasing. Just absolute, terrifying void.

Vanessa’s aristocratic facade began to crack around the edges. She glanced nervously around the room, realizing that thirty pairs of wealthy, influential eyes were watching every micro-expression on her face.

"It’s just an old, run-down property, darling," Vanessa laughed nervously, her voice pitching an octave higher. "You told me months ago that you wanted to clean up your dormant assets. I simply took the initiative to list it for you. Efficient, right?"

"Efficient," Luca repeated, tasting the word. He pulled the folded legal document from his pocket and let it drop loosely against his palm. "Strange. My accountant tells me that dormant assets require ownership by the person selling them."

"Well, naturally—"

"And yet," Luca continued, stepping closer, "the deed to Maple Street hasn't been in my name for three years. It belongs to Emily."

The ballroom went dead silent. You could hear the distant howling of the winter wind outside against the reinforced glass.

Vanessa’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Her carefully sculpted face went chalk white, the expensive blush on her cheeks looking like two red slashes against a corpse.

"You... you gave it to her," Vanessa whispered, her voice barely audible.

"I gave it to my daughter," Luca corrected, his voice rising slightly, echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. "Which means when you hired a property inspection firm to liquidate that house behind my back, you weren't cleaning up my assets. You were stealing from my family."

"I was doing what needed to be done!" Vanessa snapped, her panic finally overriding her survival instincts as she lost her temper in front of Chicago’s elite. "That brat of yours doesn't even know how to manage a checking account! She lives in the past! And you—you were going to leave everything to her and her bastard child while I stood here playing decorative trophy wife!"

The confession hung in the air, toxic and absolute.

Every guest at the tables recoiled. Senators lowered their glasses. Bankers looked down at their plates. In the syndicate world, betrayal was bad; betrayal of a boss’s bloodline was a death sentence.

Luca didn't yell. He didn't slam his fist on a table. He simply stared at the woman he had asked to marry him, his expression one of clinical, terrifying detachment.

"Get out," Luca said softly.

Vanessa blinked, clutching her red silk gown. "What?"

"Pack your bags. Leave your rings on the table. And if you are within fifty miles of Chicago by sunrise, I won't care about your family name or your political connections," Luca whispered, leaning in close so only she could hear. "I will treat you like the common thief you are."

Before Vanessa could speak, two heavy-set security guards in black suits materialized on either side of her, their large hands gripping her arms.

"Luca, you can't do this to me! I am a Bellini!" she screamed as they dragged her backward across the marble floor, her red silk gown rustling frantically. "You’ll regret this! You’ll—"

The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind her, cutting off her shrieks.