Five heiresses fought for the mafia heir’s attention all night—until one of them deliberately crushed a waitress’s foot and changed everything.

By dawn, the rain had stopped, leaving the city wrapped in a thick, grey fog.

Matteo returned to the estate, his clothes smelling of smoke and rainwater, his knuckles bruised from the night's battle at the harbor. He had neutralized Moretti's hit squad and secured the perimeter, but his mind had been on Clara every second of the night.

He walked straight up to her guest room, pushing the door open gently.

The bed was empty.

The green silk dress was neatly folded on the chair. Beside it lay the polished wooden cane.

On the nightstand was a small handwritten note:

Don't look for me. I know about the report.

Matteo's blood ran cold. He turned and sprinted down the hallway toward his private study.

He found the room in disarray, the desk drawers pulled open, and his background report lying open on the floor.

Vittorio walked into the room behind him, looking at the scene. "She's gone?"

"She thinks I used her," Matteo said, his fists clenching until his nails bit into his palms. "She found the file."

"Did you use her, Matteo?" Vittorio asked quietly, his sharp eyes examining his son's face.

"At first," Matteo admitted, his voice rough with emotion. "At first, I only went to the Belladonna because our intelligence team reported Arthur Bennett's daughter was working there. I intended to secure her, find the ledger, and finish the war."

Matteo looked up at his father, his eyes burning with raw intensity. "But then I met her. I saw her face when she dropped that glass. I saw her dignity when those arrogant fools tried to walk over her. I don't care about the damn ledger anymore, Dad. I want her."

"Then you better move fast," Vittorio said, pulling a radio from his belt. "Because Camille Laurent and Sofia Bellini have put a bounty on her head. They know she left the estate."

Meanwhile, across town, Clara was walking through the deserted, fog-covered docks of the old harbor. Her foot throbbed mercilessly with every step, but she kept moving, holding her thin jacket tightly around her shoulders.

She walked until she reached an old, rusted repair shop marked Bennett Auto Repairs—Closed.

She pulled an old key from the tiny silver necklace hidden beneath her collar—the key her father had given her on his deathbed.

She unlocked the side door and slipped inside the dusty, oil-scented dark room.

In the back of the garage, beneath an old wooden workbench, sat a heavy steel toolbox covered in dust.

Clara knelt beside it, her hands shaking as she used the key to unlock the latch.

Inside lay two things: a worn leather journal filled with her father's handwriting, and a yellowed photograph of her as a little girl, sitting on her father's shoulders, laughing under the sun.

Tears streamed down Clara's cheeks as she held the photograph against her chest.

"I'm sorry, Dad," she sobbed softly in the quiet garage. "I tried to live a quiet life. I tried."

"How touching," a sharp female voice echoed from the dark doorway of the garage.