Chapter 8
Isabella POV
"You get engaged to a mobster and suddenly you forget your own blood?" Sean slammed his hand onto the mahogany table, the sharp crack echoing in the quiet parlor.
I didn't blink. I didn't even shift in my chair. I simply gave Mrs. Reid a subtle nod.
She stepped forward, dropping three massive, leather-bound volumes onto the table. The heavy thud seemed to suck the air from the room, a physical manifestation of their sins.
Liam's face twisted in an ugly, desperate rage. "You think you can scare us with forged garbage?" He lunged forward, his hand shooting out to grab the top book.
"Even in my father's house, you will show me respect," I said, my voice a lethal, quiet blade that stopped him dead. "Touch what is mine again, and I'll have my future husband's *Enforcers* remove your hands."
Liam froze, his fingers hovering mere inches from the leather cover. He looked at me as if seeing a stranger, his chest heaving.
"Perhaps," I continued smoothly, letting the silence stretch, "you'd prefer I hand these over to the Franco *Consigliere* for a fair, impartial judgment? I'm sure Damien's men would love to audit your businesses."
The word *Consigliere* drained the remaining color from their faces. The mafia's brand of justice was not something they could bribe or manipulate. Connor, always the most pragmatic of the three, grabbed Liam's shoulder and yanked him back.
"Enough, Liam," Connor muttered, his eyes fixed warily on me. He turned to our eldest brother. "Read them, Sean."
Sean swallowed hard, pulling the ledgers closer. For the next twenty minutes, the only sound in the parlor was the ticking of the grandfather clock and the sharp rustle of turning pages. I sat perfectly still, watching the arrogant flush fade from my brothers' faces, replaced by a sickly, ashen gray.
They were seeing the truth in black and white ink. Over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars bled dry from my mother's trust. They saw their own business debts, yes, but more importantly, they saw the rest: Catherine's diamond necklaces, Clara's Parisian silks, the lavish lifestyle funded entirely by my stolen inheritance.
When Sean finally closed the last ledger, his hands were trembling. The silence was heavy, suffocating with the stench of their shattered illusions.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the arms of my chair. "The $120,000 bride price you came for?" I asked softly. "Consider it the first installment on your debt. You have one month to deliver the remaining $37,450, plus interest. Or my fiancé's people will come to collect."
Sean stared at the table, his jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might shatter. The businessman in him couldn't deny the math, but the son in him was breaking. He finally realized Catherine had played them for fools, using their greed to mask her own massive theft. The fragile trust he held for our stepmother was already turning to ash.
Connor met my eyes, a dark, grim understanding passing between us. He knew this wasn't just about the money. This was an execution of Catherine's power, a calculated strike to sever her from her protectors. He stayed perfectly still, choosing his own survival over a doomed loyalty to a woman who had used them all.
But Liam couldn't stomach the humiliation. His pride was shredded by the undeniable proof of his family's rot, and the reality that he was now a debtor to the sister he despised. He couldn't strike me—not with the threat of Damien's men hanging over his head. His wild, furious eyes darted around the room, desperately searching for a target to tear down, someone to absorb the venom choking his throat.
His gaze bypassed me and landed squarely on the woman standing quietly at my side.
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