He Called Her a Traitor and Threw Her Out Into the Storm — Then Learned the Quiet Woman He Lost Was Born to a Mafia Dynasty.

PART 2

Priya picked up the test, pressed her free hand against her stomach, and imagined telling him.

The bedroom door slammed open.

The sound cracked through the penthouse, and every tender possibility vanished.

Priya shoved the test into the pocket of her robe and stepped out of the bathroom.

Weston stood in the center of the bedroom, rain dripping from his coat onto the pale carpet. His usually immaculate hair lay wet across his forehead, and a dark streak of blood marked the edge of his shirt cuff.

“Weston?”

He said nothing.

She crossed the room slowly. “What happened?”

When she reached for his coat, he caught both her wrists. The grip was immediate and hard enough to hurt.

“Don’t touch me.”

“You’re hurting me,” she said.

His fingers loosened, but he did not release her until she stepped back.

From inside his coat, he pulled out a thick envelope and threw it onto the bed.

Photographs, wire-transfer records, security reports, and bank statements spilled across the duvet.

Priya looked down. Millions of dollars had moved through offshore accounts into companies connected to Marchetti — no. Priya’s mind was reeling; she looked closer. The rival was Marcus Voss, Weston’s most relentless rival. At the bottom of every authorization page appeared a flawless imitation of her signature.

*Priya Osei.*

Beside the financial records lay surveillance photographs of a woman in a belted trench coat meeting Silas Bram, Voss’s chief enforcer, inside a diner in Hell’s Kitchen.

“This is manufactured,” she said.

Weston laughed once, without humor. “Of course that’s your answer.”

“Because it’s the truth.”

“My people traced the transfers to your laptop.”

“Then someone accessed my laptop.”

“The building footage from Tuesday night was erased.”

“Then someone erased it.”

“Do you hear yourself?”

She lifted one photograph. “The timestamp says twelve fourteen in the morning. You know where I was.”

“No, Priya. I know where you claim you were.”

“I was in this apartment.”

“I was at the Red Hook terminal. The shipment was already gone by then. Voss knew the arrival time, container number, security rotation, and alternate route. Only three people had all of that information.”

“Who?”

“My brother, my adviser, and you.”

“You told me those details while you were on the phone beside me. I did not ask.”

“But you listened.”

“Was I supposed to cover my ears inside my own bedroom?”

“It was never your bedroom.”

The words came quickly, sharpened by anger, but the moment they left his mouth, something moved in his expression. Regret, perhaps. He buried it.

“No,” she said quietly. “I suppose it wasn’t.”