As one of Los Angeles’ most powerful mafia bosses, I pretended to fly to Canada because I suspected my housekeeper was doing something terrible to my daughters whenever I disappeared on business. Forty-five minutes after secretly returning to my Bel-Air mansion and turning on the hidden cameras, I discovered I had been watching the wrong woman all along, and I walked out of that security room completely pale, looking for my fiancée.

By two o'clock that afternoon, the Bel-Air estate was surrounded by three armored black SUVs parked along the winding driveway.

My legal team, led by a ruthless corporate attorney named Arthur Sterling, sat at the long mahogany table in my private study. Opposite him sat Hector, reviewing a thick stack of printed financial reports, phone logs, and surveillance transcripts that had been pulled from Chloe’s personal laptop within forty-five minutes of her departure.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of unopened scotch sitting on my desk, watching the autumn rain begin to slick the glass.

Downstairs, Marisol was sitting with my daughters in the sunroom, reading them a story while Sofia held her plush rabbit tightly against her chest.

"Mr. Vance," Arthur Sterling spoke up, his glasses sliding down his nose as he turned a page. "This is far more complex than a simple domestic dispute."

I turned around slowly, resting my hands on the back of my leather chair. "Explain."

"Miss Harrington’s personal bank accounts show six major wire transfers over the past four months," Sterling said, pointing his pen at a highlighted ledger. "Totaling nearly 1.2 million dollars. The originating source is an offshore shell corporation based in Grand Cayman."

"Who owns the shell corporation?" I asked, my eyes narrowing.

Hector looked up from his tablet, his expression grim. "We ran the routing numbers through our contact at the port authority, boss. The shell company traces back to the Moretti family in Chicago."

A cold, dangerous silence fell over the study.

The Moretti family was my primary rival—a powerful, ruthless syndicate that controlled the Midwest shipping lanes. We had maintained a cold, tense peace for three years after a bloody border dispute in Arizona.

"Chloe wasn't just abusing my daughters," I rasped, the realization striking me like a physical blow. "She was planted."

"It appears so, sir," Sterling confirmed. "Her family's real estate firm in Beverly Hills was facing bankruptcy six months before she met you at the charity gala in Venice. It seems Marcus Moretti paid off her father's debt in exchange for her positioning herself inside your home."

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.

The cruelty I had witnessed on the monitor wasn't just a sudden burst of temper from an insecure woman. It was a calculated, deliberate campaign to alienate my daughters, isolate me emotionally, and create chaos inside my household while the Morettis prepared a move against my shipping territory in San Pedro.

"She was trying to drive Marisol out first," Hector added, tapping his screen. "Marisol has been with the Vance family for eighteen years. She knew your late wife. She knew the household routines. As long as Marisol was here, Chloe couldn't install her own staff—men hired by the Morettis."

I stepped over to my desk, leaning both hands heavy against the mahogany wood, my chest rising and falling in deep, controlled breaths.

I had almost fallen for it.

If I hadn't set that trap today—if I had actually flown to Canada and let Chloe carry out her plan—Marisol would have been framed for theft, fired, and replaced by Moretti operatives within forty-eight hours. My daughters would have been left completely helpless under the control of a woman who hated them, while I was distracted by false reports of internal betrayal.

"Where is Chloe now?" I asked Hector.

"She drove straight to her sister's penthouse in Santa Monica," Hector replied. "Two of my men are parked outside the garage. She hasn't made a phone call yet, but her personal laptop just pinged an encrypted server in Illinois."

I looked at Sterling. "Freeze the wedding trust. Seize the Beverly Hills townhouse her father holds under my corporate umbrella. Issue a formal notice to every high-society club in Los Angeles that Chloe Harrington is persona non grata."

"Consider it done, Mr. Vance," Sterling nodded, packing his papers into his leather briefcase.