"My Mafia Fiancé Let My Stepsister Wear My Wedding Dress—So I Vanished He Regretted Everything...

The penthouse on Lake Shore Drive looked like the site of a high-end burglary.

Drawers hung open. Wardrobe doors were thrown wide. Suitcases lined the polished travertine marble of the foyer, overflowing with designer gowns, diamond watches, and fur coats.

Celeste Hart stood in the center of the living room, screaming into her gold-cased phone.

"I don't care what the bank manager said! That trust was set up with my husband's estate! Lorenzo DeMarco cannot simply sign an executive freeze on my credit lines!"

She paused, listening. Her face twisted into a mask of pure, ugly rage. "He did what? *Fraudulent misappropriation?* That's absurd! I was the executrix!"

The call disconnected with a sharp beep.

Celeste threw the phone across the room. It bounced off a velvet sofa and hit the floor.

"Mom, look at this!" Vanessa stepped out of the walk-in closet, holding two dresses. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, her hair disheveled. "The locks on the safety deposit boxes were changed this morning. The courier brought back our private jewelry boxes completely empty! There’s a note from DeMarco Security saying all items purchased with DeMarco family funds have been repatriated!"

"Shut up, Vanessa!" Celeste snarled, pacing the floor. "Just shut up and let me think!"

"Think about what?" Vanessa's voice rose to an ear-splitting pitch. "We're ruined! Everyone in Chicago saw Lorenzo kick us out! The country club revoked our memberships this morning! Cynthia Vance called me just to laugh before she hung up! We have nothing!"

"We have the house on Elm Street," Celeste snapped. "Your father's estate still owns the deed to the Hart family home. We can liquidate the art, we can—"

The heavy oak double doors of the penthouse swung open without a knock.

Marco stepped inside first, followed by two men carrying clipboards and three uniformed Chicago police detectives.

Behind them walked Lorenzo.

He had changed out of his wedding suit into a charcoal turtleneck and a long cashmere overcoat. His face was leaner than it had been four days ago, the angles of his cheekbones sharp, dark shadows bruised beneath his eyes. He hadn't shaved. A three-day growth of stubble gave him the look of a wolf that had been scenting blood for days.

"Get out," Celeste hissed, pointing a trembling, manicured finger at the door. "This is private property! The lease—"

"The lease was held by DeMarco Real Estate Holdings," Marco said flatly, holding out a laminated legal document. "As of eight o'clock this morning, the lease has been terminated due to non-payment and criminal investigation. You have twenty minutes to vacate the premises."

"Criminal investigation?" Vanessa scoffed, though her voice shook. "You can't intimidate us with your fake mob courts, Lorenzo! We haven't committed a crime!"

Lorenzo didn't look at Vanessa. He hadn't looked at her once since the morning he shattered the champagne glass against the mirror.

He walked over to the fireplace, rested one arm on the marble mantelpiece, and looked down at the embers.

"For eighteen months," Lorenzo said quietly, his voice like stones scraping against ice, "Elena lived in the small corner bedroom of the East Wing."

Celeste shifted uncomfortably. "She preferred the privacy—"

"She lived in a eight-by-ten room without central heating," Lorenzo cut in, turning his head slowly toward her. "Because you told the household manager that her presence in the family suites was 'disruptive to the staff’s operational schedule.' You told my head decorator that Elena felt uncomfortable around high-value antiques because of her 'humble background.'"

Lorenzo walked toward Celeste. Each step was slow, measured, heavy with menace.

"I found the ledgers, Celeste."

Celeste’s eyes widened.

"My father set up an educational and living stipend for Elena when her mother died," Lorenzo continued, stopping two feet from her. "Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year, beginning when she turned eighteen. It went into an escrow account administered by your late husband."

He leaned down slightly, bringing his face level with hers.

"You forged Elena's signature on sixty-two separate withdrawal slips over a seven-year period. You used her inheritance to pay off Vanessa's boarding school tuition, her nose job in Beverly Hills, and the lease on your Mercedes."

"That's a lie!" Vanessa yelled.

Lorenzo snapped his fingers. Marco tossed a thick stack of blue-bordered bank records onto the glass coffee table with a loud *thud*.

"Chicago Police Financial Crimes Division already has the originals," Lorenzo said smoothly. "The State’s Attorney signed the indictments twenty minutes ago. Grand larceny. Identity theft. Wire fraud. Falsifying notarized trust documents."

Celeste’s knees buckled. She dropped onto the edge of the sofa, her face grey, her hands shaking uncontrollably. "Lorenzo... please. We’re family. Vittorio would never have allowed this—"

"My father would have put you in the trunk of a car five years ago," Lorenzo whispered, his eyes blazing with cold, righteous fury. "He left you alone because he thought Elena was happy. He thought she had a mother and a sister. He didn't know she was living with two blood-sucking parasites who were slowly picking the flesh off her bones while she smiled and apologized for bleeding on your carpet."

He turned his back on them.

"Take them downstairs," Lorenzo told the detectives. "Let the press take as many pictures as they want."

"Lorenzo! No! You can't do this to me!" Vanessa lunged forward, trying to grab the hem of his coat.

Marco stepped between them, his large hand clamping down on Vanessa's shoulder with enough force to make her wince. "Move," Marco said without an ounce of warmth.

As the officers escorted the two wailing women toward the private elevator, Lorenzo walked down the hallway to the master suite Elena had never been allowed to occupy.

He walked into the dark room and sat on the edge of the unmade bed.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed.

He pulled it out. It was a private encrypted message from an operative he had stationed in northern Illinois.

*Target not located at regional airports or commercial transit hubs. But an old private account linked to the late Don Vittorio DeMarco showed an inquiry ping forty-eight hours ago. Location: Havenport, Michigan.*

Lorenzo stared at the screen.

Havenport.

It was a small, forgotten coastal town where his father used to keep an old wooden fishing trawler thirty years ago, long before the DeMarco name was stamped on high-rises and shipping conglomerates.

A town so small it didn't even have a traffic camera on the main strip.

Lorenzo closed his eyes. For the first time in four days, he let out a ragged, shaking breath.

*You went to his sanctuary,* Lorenzo thought, his chest aching with a pain so violent it felt like a cracked rib. *Not mine. His.*

He stood up, shoving the phone back into his pocket.

"Marco," he called out, his voice echoing through the empty, looted penthouse.

Marco appeared at the door. "Boss?"