His Mafia Betrayal, My Unwanted Heir.

Isobel Stout POV The rain did not wash away the sins of the night; it only made the blood slicker, harder to hold onto. I dragged Arlene’s body through the mud, my fingers cramping around the fabric of her coat. Every inch was a battle against gravity and my own failing strength. The sirens that had scared Hugo off were fading into the distance, leaving me alone with the corpse of the only person who had ever loved me. "I'm sorry," I sobbed, the sound torn from my throat raw and ragged. "I'm so sorry, Arlene." We reached the edge of the old logging road where the skeleton of a Ford Model T sat rotting in the weeds, a ghost of a different era. It was a coffin of rust, but it was the only sanctuary the devil would grant us tonight. With a strength born of pure hysteria, I heaved Arlene’s body into the trunk. Her limbs were already stiffening, her eyes staring blankly at the weeping sky. I forced the lid down. The metal groaned, a screech that sounded like a dying animal, sealing her in darkness. I collapsed into the driver’s seat, curling into a ball beneath the dashboard. The smell of wet upholstery and old iron filled my lungs, mixing with the metallic tang of fresh blood on my hands. *Crunch.* A heavy boot snapped a twig nearby. "Come out, little rat!" Hugo’s voice boomed through the trees, closer than I expected. "You can't hide forever!" I clamped a hand over my mouth, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. He was hunting. And I was bleeding, exhausted, and carrying a child that felt heavier with every breath. I couldn't stay here. If he found the car, he found Arlene. He would desecrate her. I waited until his footsteps crunched away toward the ravine, then I slipped out into the mist. I didn't look back at the rusted Ford. I just ran. * The neon sign of the speakeasy buzzed with an erratic hum, a beacon in the grey dawn. I stumbled through the heavy wooden door, bringing the scent of death into the den of vice. The noise hit me first—a wall of jazz, laughter, and clinking glass. Then, the silence. It spread outward from where I stood, rippling through the crowd like a shockwave. The piano player faltered and stopped. Dozens of eyes turned to me. I must have looked like a nightmare birthed from the storm—my silk dress torn and sodden, my skin pale as bone, and my hands... my hands were stained crimson with Arlene’s life. "Help me," I rasped, but the words were swallowed by the sudden tension in the room. Before anyone could move, the door behind me slammed open. Hugo Stokes marched in, flanked by two Stout soldiers. He looked like a butcher fresh from the slaughterhouse, his chest heaving, his eyes scanning the room until they locked on me. A cruel, satisfied grin split his face. "There you are." The patrons scrambled back, clearing a circle around us. No one intervened. In our world, you didn't step between a wolf and its meal. "Please," I whispered to the room at large, backing away until I hit a table. "He killed her. He'll kill me." Hugo laughed, a dark, wet sound. He stepped into the circle, his knife glinting under the low amber lights. "This is a family matter," he announced, his voice booming with the arrogance of a man who believes he is untouchable. "A *Vendetta*. She is a traitor to the blood. Anyone who interferes declares war on the Stout family." The threat hung heavy in the smoke-filled air. I closed my eyes, my hand instinctively going to my stomach. *I failed.* "A Stout dog," a voice cut through the silence. It was low, smooth, and colder than the grave I had just left. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "Barking so far from home." My eyes snapped open. The voice came from a booth in the darkest corner of the room, shrouded in shadow. A man leaned forward, the light catching the sharp angle of his jaw and eyes that burned with the intensity of blue ice. Hugo froze, his knife hovering in mid-air. He squinted at the figure, confusion warring with recognition. "Who the hell are you?" Hugo snarled, though his confidence wavered. The man didn't stand. He didn't need to. He simply swirled the amber liquid in his glass, looking at Hugo with the boredom of a god watching an insect. "You're in my city, boy," Damien Flynn said softly. "And you're making a mess on my floor."