The Mafia Boss Put His Ring on My Finger by Mistake—Then His Real Fiancée Ordered Me Dragged Out...

Isabella stopped dead in the middle of the Persian rug.

Her expensive cream coat seemed to freeze around her shoulders. She pulled off her dark sunglasses with a hand that trembled so violently she nearly dropped them onto the floor.

"You're insane," Isabella breathed, her voice rising an octave into a shrill, hysterical pitch. "Matteo, are you listening to this common trash? She's trying to distract you from her own fraud! She tried to steal my ring!"

"The ring was an accident created by your co-conspirator," I said, stepping past Matteo’s desk toward the low glass coffee table where Victor had laid out the Maro Foundation archives five minutes earlier. "And as for the four point two million... let's talk about the offshore account in Grand Cayman under the name Aglaia Holdings."

Isabella turned pale. The artfully applied blush on her high cheekbones looked like bruised plums against her chalk-white skin. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You should," I said, turning a page of the ledger with a crisp snap. "Your private signature is on the wire authorization from November fourteenth. You used the Rhodes Music Center’s non-profit tax exemption number as the dummy intermediary to bypass the federal anti-money laundering filters at Chase Bank."

I looked up at her, letting a cold, sharp smile touch my lips.

"Did you really think a piano teacher wouldn't understand double-entry bookkeeping, Isabella? Teaching twenty children a week requires tracking every cent of sheet music expenses, facility rentals, and instrument repair grants. Your father’s accountants are lazy. They used the same routing sequence for three separate shell companies."

Matteo hadn't moved. He stood by the fireplace, his hand resting casually inside his jacket pocket, his hazel eyes fixed entirely on Isabella.

"Victor," Matteo called out quietly.

Victor Salazar, who had been standing near the library doors with his hands folded neatly behind his back, took a half-step backward. "Yes, Matteo?"

"When did Aglaia Holdings open its account with Chase?" Matteo asked. His tone was conversational, almost gentle, but the air in the room plunged toward absolute zero.

"I... I would have to check the central registry, Matteo," Victor stammered, a thin line of sweat appearing along his silver hairline. "The Maro family handles their own private holding structures. I merely processed the inter-company logistics as your father's agreement stipulated."

"You processed it because you owned twenty percent of Aglaia Holdings," I interjected, pulling a printout from the folder Matteo had given me in the car. "Registered under your wife’s maiden name, Victor. Salazar-Vane."

Victor’s hand twitched toward his waistcoat pocket.

Before he could pull whatever was inside, the double doors behind him clicked open.

Enzo—Matteo’s head of security, a broad-shouldered man with a scarred jaw and the eyes of a wolf—stepped into the room. Two armed guards followed him, positioning themselves silently behind Victor and Isabella.

"Take Miss Maro to the guest suite," Matteo commanded, his voice cold and final. "Confiscate her phone, her tablet, and her jewelry."

"You can't do this!" Isabella screamed as Enzo’s men stepped forward, grabbing her slender arms firmly. "My father will destroy you, Matteo! The Commission will tear your family apart for this!"

"Your father is currently being detained by federal agents at Midway Airport," Matteo said without turning around. "They found three million dollars in unregistered bearer bonds in his carry-on bag. Bonds that belonged to my father’s estate."

Isabella gasped, her eyes wild with panic, as she was dragged out of the study. Her high heels scraped uselessly against the hardwood until the heavy doors slammed shut behind her, cutting off her screams.

That left Victor.

The old advisor stood alone in the center of the room. He didn't scream. He didn't fight. He slowly unbuttoned his tailored suit jacket, pulled out his silver pocket watch, and set it on Matteo’s mahogany desk.

"You were always smarter than your father, Matteo," Victor said quietly, his voice devoid of its former polished warmth. "He never looked at the ledgers. He trusted family."

"You aren't family, Victor," Matteo said, stepping away from the fire. "You were an employee who forgot his place."

"And her?" Victor sneered, throwing a dark, venomous look at me. "What is she? A music teacher from the South Side? You think the syndicate board will respect a Don who takes orders from a curvy civilian who wears shoes from Payless?"

Matteo moved so fast I didn't even see his feet take a step.

In less than a second, he had Victor by the throat, slamming the older man’s back against the walnut bookcase with a sickening thud. Books rattled on the shelves above them.

"She found in two hours what you tried to hide for ten years," Matteo growled, his face inches from Victor’s pale, gasping features. "She has more courage in her little finger than your entire family possesses. And if you ever speak about her appearance, her class, or her name again..."

Matteo’s voice dropped into a terrifying, guttural whisper that made my blood run cold.

"...I won't send you to prison with Isabella. I'll drop you into Lake Michigan with fifty pounds of lead tied to your ankles."

I took a sharp breath, stepping forward. "Matteo. Don't."

Matteo didn't take his eyes off Victor, but his grip on the man’s throat didn't tighten further. "Why not? He tried to destroy your life, Amelia."

"He tried," I said, my voice ringing out clearly through the tense room. "And he failed. If you kill him now, you give the syndicate board a reason to call you a tyrant who murders his own advisors to cover up a mistake. Let him stand trial before your council. Let the board see the paper trail I built."

Matteo held Victor against the wall for three long, agonizing seconds. Then, with a look of utter disgust, he shoved the old man toward Enzo’s remaining guard.

"Lock him in the wine cellar," Matteo ordered. "Call an emergency meeting of the Council for eight o'clock tonight."

The guard dragged Victor away, leaving the study in complete, echoing silence.

I stood near the coffee table, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. The adrenaline that had carried me through the last two hours began to fade, leaving my knees weak and my hands trembling slightly.

Matteo turned back to me.

The murderous rage in his eyes was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous: an intense, unvarnished fascination that burned straight through me.

He walked over to where I stood, stopping so close I could feel the heat radiating off his body.

"You saved his life," Matteo said softly.

"I saved your reputation," I corrected, looking up into his hazel eyes. "There's a difference."

Matteo reached out, his long fingers gently catching a stray dark curl that had fallen across my forehead, tucking it carefully behind my ear. His touch was feather-light, completely at odds with the violent strength he had displayed seconds earlier.

"The Council meeting tonight will be dangerous, Amelia," he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly across the high curve of my cheekbone. "Victor has allies among the older families. They will try to claim you manipulated the evidence."

"Let them try," I said, my voice steady despite the shiver traveling down my spine. "I have the original digital timestamps."

Matteo let out a low, quiet laugh—a sound so rich and warm it made my chest ache.

"You need a dress," he said.

I blinked. "What?"

"If you're coming to the Falcone Council meeting as my key witness," Matteo said, his eyes scanning my curves with a fierce, possessive heat that made my face burn red, "you aren't wearing a clearance-rack sweater. You're wearing emerald silk."