She Accused Me of Stealing My Own Business

“Miss Isabella, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this.”

The next morning, Vincenzo’s right-hand man, Marco, stood in front of me, his eyes darting around nervously.

“The Boss has decided you’re out. Effective immediately.”

I put down my coffee cup and looked at the man who used to bow and scrape before me.

“By the book,” Marco added, his voice even lower, “you need to hand over your ring.”

I calmly slid the ring I’d worn for ten years off my finger and placed it on the tray he was holding.

“Ava’s taking over all your operations.”

“I understand,” I nodded. “Is there anything you need from me for the transition?”

Marco looked stunned by my cooperation.

“Uh… Miss Ava said she’ll contact you directly.”

As if on cue, the sound of high heels echoed from the hallway.

Click, clack, click.

Ava strode in, followed by two young men I didn’t recognize.

“Isabella, I’m here to take over your work,” she announced proudly.

Today she was wearing a red suit, like a peacock showing off its feathers.

“Of course.” I stood up gracefully. “What do you need?”

“The files on the Moretti family,” she said, straight to the point. “The old godfather’s likes, dislikes, every detail.”

I looked at her eager face and felt a wave of pity.

“Mr. Moretti is old-school. He likes 1947 Macallan whisky,” I said slowly. “He doesn’t smoke, but he enjoys the aroma of a good Cuban cigar.”

Ava dutifully took notes.

“Anything else?”

“He’s an art expert, especially Renaissance paintings,” I continued. “Most importantly, he respects young people with guts who aren’t afraid to show what they can do. You have to grab the opportunity and let him see your talent.”

“Okay, what else?”

I paused and looked at her with a smile.

“He values tradition and respect. Remember, the first impression is everything.”

What I didn’t tell her was that old man Moretti hated nothing more than new-money show-offs who didn’t know the rules. Especially little nobodies who tried to act smart in front of him and challenge his authority.

“Thanks,” Ava said, closing her notebook. “You can go now.”

That afternoon, I was shopping at Bergdorf Goodman on Fifth Avenue.

As I was picking out a Hermès scarf, my phone buzzed.

A notification from my car’s tracking system: my bulletproof Bentley was on the move.

I frowned. The keys were right here in my bag. Oh, right. The spare key Vincenzo had.

Through the storefront window, I saw a disgusting sight.

My Bentley was stopped at a red light, with Vincenzo behind the wheel.

In the passenger seat, Ava was touching up her lipstick in the mirror.

She saw me in the window, slowly rolled down her window, and gave me a fake, triumphant smile.

Then, she deliberately tossed the half-finished milkshake cup in her hand onto the sidewalk, right at my feet.

“Sorry, Isabella,” she mouthed. “No room for trash in the car.”

I just watched her, a smug look on her face.

Then my phone buzzed again.

A spending alert from my bank.

My secondary Black Card had just been charged for $85,000.

Location: Cartier.

I immediately called the bank.

“Hello, I need to report a stolen card and freeze the account.”

“Of course, Miss Isabella. We’re processing that for you now.”

I could have locked the car remotely, left them stranded in the middle of Fifth Avenue traffic.

But I didn’t.

When I locked them down, it had to be at a moment they’d never forget.

I dialed another number.

“Bill, it’s me.”

“Isabella? My God, how long has it been?” A cheerful laugh came through the phone.

Bill Morrison, a senior councilman for the city of New York. Fifteen years ago, he was a small-time lawyer hustling in Brooklyn. My father helped him out of a jam, which gave him his shot at politics.

“I’d like to have a coffee with you, Bill.”

“Of course! The usual place?”

“The usual place.”

An hour later, I was sitting in a cafe near City Hall.

Bill looked older than he did on TV, but his eyes were just as sharp.

“I was so sorry to hear about your father, Isabella,” he said, holding his coffee cup. “He was a good man.”

“Thank you.” I nodded. “I came today to discuss a… business matter.”

“What’s on your mind?”

I took the velvet document pouch from my bag, the one I’d taken from the club’s hidden compartment.

“It’s about the business license for ‘The Siren’s Song’ club, its fire safety permits, and its annual district review.”

Bill’s expression turned serious.

“Tell me more.”

I pushed the deed and the holding company certificates across the table to him.

“All the licenses and the deed for ‘The Siren’s Song’ are in my name,” I said slowly. “But someone is trying to take it from me. Illegally.”

Bill carefully looked through the documents.

“This is all in your name, that’s for sure,” he said, looking up at me. “But this illegal seizure you mentioned…”

“Someone forged account books, framed me for skimming, and then seized control of the club.”

My voice was calm, but Bill was sharp enough to hear the rage underneath.

“What do you need me to do?”

“According to regulations, when does the annual district safety review begin?”

Bill understood what I was getting at.

“Next week. But… with a serious enough tip—say, an illegal gathering and major fire hazards—we could arrange a joint raid with the Fire Department and the NYPD anytime.”

“Good.” I stood up with a smile. “The more people, the bigger the spectacle, the better.”

“Isabella,” he called out as I turned to leave. “Be careful. This city’s a deep pond.”

“I know.” I looked back at him. “But if we’re going to settle this, I’m taking the whole damn board.”