His Mafia Betrayal, My Unwanted Heir.

Isobel Stout POV

The silence in the study was heavier than the mahogany desk separating me from my father’s fury. The air tasted of stale cigar smoke and the metallic tang of impending violence.

"I will ask you one last time," Elroy said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register that was far worse than his shouting. He unholstered his gun, the heavy steel clattering onto the desk. "Who is the father?"

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. *Damien Flynn.* The name echoed in my mind, a dangerous prayer. If I spoke it, if I admitted that the seed growing inside me belonged to the Don of the Chicago Outfit—our sworn enemy—Elroy wouldn't just kill me. He would torture me for treason.

I locked my jaw, staring at the pulse jumping in his neck. "I can't say."

"Can't? or won't?" Janiyah chimed in from the corner. She stood up, the silk of her dress rustling like dry leaves. She walked over to Elroy, placing a hand on his shoulder, her touch possessive. "Look at her, Elroy. She’s protecting him. It’s probably some low-level associate. A driver, perhaps? Or a waiter?"

She looked at me with eyes that gleamed with malice. "Imagine the shame when the other families find out. The Stout heiress, spreading her legs for the help."

Elroy’s face turned a shade of puce I had never seen before. He rounded the desk in two strides and grabbed my face, his fingers digging into my cheeks hard enough to bruise.

"Is she right?" he spat, his breath hot and sour on my face. "Did you debase yourself with trash?"

I met his gaze, my eyes burning but dry. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to *my* reputation!" He shoved me backward. I stumbled, catching myself on the edge of a bookshelf. "You want to protect your lover? Fine. You can protect him in the dark."

He turned to the guards waiting by the door. "Take her to the cellar. The old wine storage. No one speaks to her. No one feeds her anything but bread and water until she gives me a name."

"Elroy, surely—" Janiyah started, feigning concern, though a smirk played on her lips.

"Get her out of my sight!" he roared.

As the guards seized my arms, dragging me out of the only home I had ever known, I didn't look back at my father. I looked at Janiyah. She was watching me go, her fingers tracing the pearls at her throat, looking for all the world like a cat that had finally cornered the mouse.

*

The cellar was a grave without the mercy of death.

Dampness seeped from the stone walls, chilling me to the bone. There was no bed, only a rotting pallet in the corner that smelled of mildew and despair. Time lost its meaning in the suffocating darkness. I measured the hours by the rhythmic dripping of a leaking pipe somewhere in the shadows.

My hand rested on my flat stomach. *I’m sorry,* I whispered into the blackness. *I’m so sorry.*

On the third day, the heavy iron door creaked open, but only a crack. A slice of yellow light cut through the gloom, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

"You look terrible, darling."

Janiyah’s voice drifted through the gap, sweet and poisonous. I didn't move from my corner.

"The gala at the Rossi estate is tonight," she continued, her tone conversational. "I’m wearing the emerald velvet. Everyone will be asking where you are. I suppose I’ll tell them you’ve been sent away to a convent to... reflect on your sins."

"Go to hell, Janiyah," I rasped, my throat raw from thirst.

She laughed, a light, tinkling sound that grated on my nerves. "I’m already living in your house, sleeping in your father’s bed, and spending your inheritance. I think I’m in heaven, Isobel. And you? You’re exactly where a whore belongs."

The door slammed shut, plunging me back into the abyss.

*

Two days later, the lock turned again.

I braced myself for the guard, for the stale bread that was my only sustenance. But the door swung wide, and two men dragged a limp form into the room, tossing it onto the cold stone floor like a sack of refuse.

"A gift from the Capo," one of the guards grunted before retreating and locking us in.

I scrambled across the floor on my hands and knees. "Hello? Who is—"

The figure groaned, rolling over. In the dim light filtering from the grate high above, I saw the face.

"Arlene?" The scream tore from my throat.

It was her. But her kind, round face was swollen, one eye shut completely by a purple hematoma. Her lip was split, and her arm was cradled against her chest at a sickening angle.

"Miss Isobel," she wheezed, blood bubbling at the corner of her mouth.

"Oh my god, Arlene." I pulled her head into my lap, tears finally spilling over, hot and fast. "What did they do to you?"

"I tried..." She coughed, wincing in pain. "I tried to call my cousin in Jersey. To get you out. Janiyah... she has ears everywhere."

A sob racked my body. She had done this for me. The only person in this house who had ever shown me love was broken on the floor because of me.

"I'm sorry, Arlene. I'm so sorry."

"Don't cry, child," she whispered, her good hand reaching up to wipe my cheek with trembling fingers. "We have to be strong. For the baby."

I looked down at her battered face, and something inside me snapped. The fear that had paralyzed me since the hotel room in Chicago evaporated. In its place, a cold, hard rage settled in my chest, solid as the stone walls around us.

I gently brushed the hair from Arlene’s forehead. They thought they could break me by hurting the people I loved. They thought fear would make me talk.

They were wrong.

I wasn't just a scared girl anymore. I was a mother protecting her child, and I was a woman with a debt of blood to collect. Janiyah wanted a war? She had just started one she wouldn't survive.