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 3
Weston turned away, jaw rigid.
Three of his warehouses had been raided in two months. Two trusted suppliers had disappeared. A safe house in the Bronx had been attacked less than an hour after Weston moved one of his cousins there. Each loss had hardened the fear already living inside him.
Priya understood that fear. What she could not accept was how easily he had allowed it to wear her face.
She gathered the documents, scanning routing numbers, dates, and authorization sequences. Her trained mind found irregularities immediately.
“These transfers were approved in batches of nine,” she said. “Your financial system groups outside payments in sets of eight. Someone altered the export format after the money moved.”
Weston’s gaze flicked toward the papers.
“The timestamps are also wrong. This one lists eleven fifty-eight, but the verification code was generated at eleven fifty-six. Your bank’s protocol does not create codes before a request.”
“You know a great deal about my bank.”
“I pay attention.”
“That is exactly the problem.”
She stared at him. “You believe curiosity is proof of treason?”
“I believe Voss has anticipated every move I made since you entered my life.”
“And because loving me frightened you, you needed the traitor to be me.”
His expression darkened. “Do not turn this into a discussion about my feelings.”
“It has always been about your feelings. You trusted me while trust felt pleasant. The moment it became dangerous, you chose the explanation that protected your pride.”
“My pride did not get six men killed tonight.”
“No. The real traitor did.”
Weston walked toward her. “Stop speaking as though you know my organization better than I do.”
“Right now, I do.” Her voice changed as the old authority surfaced from beneath Priya’s carefully cultivated softness. “You have an enemy inside your inner circle. He forged records through systems only a senior adviser could access. He copied information from my computer to make me appear responsible. He knew you would be too angry to examine the evidence carefully, and he knew your greatest weakness was not greed or violence.”
Weston held her gaze.
“It was shame,” she continued. “Some part of you has always believed no decent woman could love you without wanting something. Whoever framed me understands you well enough to use that belief as a weapon.”
For one suspended moment, doubt moved through his eyes.
“Check the elevator logs. Check the backup servers. Examine the metadata instead of the printed reports. Ask who delivered this envelope and who benefits if I disappear.”
Weston’s mouth tightened. “Silas already checked.”
*Silas Bram.*
The name settled heavily between them. Weston’s childhood friend. His adviser.
“Silas gave you the evidence?”
“He supervised the investigation.”
“Then he should be investigated first.”
Weston’s hand struck the dresser hard enough to rattle the mirror. “Enough.”
Priya flinched despite herself.
His anger instantly shifted, but instead of apologizing, he looked away.
“Pack a bag,” he said.
“What?”
“You have five minutes.”
“For what?”
“To leave.”
The child inside her was no larger than a plum, yet Priya felt an instinctive need to place both hands over her stomach.
“If you are still in New York at sunrise,” he said, each word measured, “I will consider you an active enemy of my family.”
She waited for him to retract it. When he did not, she asked, “And what do you do to active enemies?”
His silence answered.