She Accused Me of Stealing My Own Business

For the next few days, Ava was completely lost in her new role as “lady of the house.”

Her Instagram was a flood of updates.

In the morning, it was photos of her “working” in the club office, which really meant taking selfies.

At noon, it was “professional” shots of her directing waiters on how to set the tables.

At night, it was her "struggling" to choose between different evening gowns.

Every picture came with a cringey caption.

“Gotta make sure every detail is perfect for Don Moretti’s visit.”

“A lot of responsibility, but I believe in myself.”

“A day in the life of a boss.”

Underneath, a chorus of Vincenzo’s men liked and commented, calling her the “new Godmother” and saying the “future is bright.”

I watched her little performance quietly.

I liked her posts. I shared them. I even left a supportive comment: “Go get ‘em, you can do this.”

She replied faster than the speed of light: “Thanks for the support, sis!”

Poor thing. She still thought we were friends.

Friday night at nine, my phone rang.

The caller ID said: Vincenzo.

“Isabella, what the hell is this?” His voice was tight with suppressed rage.

“What’s what?” I was at home, sipping a glass of red wine, my tone as casual as if we were talking about the weather.

“Ava’s card! Why was it frozen? She was at an auction, trying to buy a necklace, and the card was declined!”

“Oh, that card.” I pretended to just remember. “It was reported stolen, so I had to freeze it for security.”

There was a few seconds of silence on the line.

“Stolen?”

“Yeah, someone charged over eighty grand at Cartier,” I said lightly. “You know how bold these thieves are getting.”

“Isabella, cut the shit,” Vincenzo’s voice turned dangerous. “Unfreeze the card. Now.”

“Afraid I can’t.” I took a sip of wine. “The bank said they have to investigate. Could take a month.”

“A month?” his voice shot up. “Do you have any idea how much stuff we need to buy to host Moretti tomorrow?”

“That’s not my problem,” my voice suddenly went cold. “Vincenzo, your woman is buying things. Why is she using my money? Is the family treasury empty?”

The question hit his pride like a needle.

The Vincenzo family had money, but their cash flow was always tight. Most of it was tied up in expanding their territory and buying weapons.

“You’re getting revenge,” he hissed.

“Revenge?” I laughed softly. “Vincenzo, you’re giving me too much credit. I’m just a nobody now, kicked to the curb. How could I get revenge?”

He seemed like he wanted to say something else, but in the end, he just slammed the phone down.

I put my phone down and continued to sip my wine.

The New York skyline glittered outside my window.

This was just the beginning.

Soon, the whole city would have a front-row seat to a hell of a show.

On Sunday night, I sat in my home office, my desk covered in documents.

Every single one was a piece of carefully organized evidence.

The deed to “The Siren’s Song,” the bank records of me covering Vincenzo’s weapons deals and paying off officials, even screenshots of Ava’s selfies.

I dialed Mr. Cohen’s number.

“Miss Isabella, still up so late?” The old lawyer’s voice was as sharp as ever.

“There’s something I need your help with.” I looked at the papers on my desk. “Tomorrow night, ten o’clock sharp. I need the NYPD and the Fire Department to conduct a joint raid on ‘The Siren’s Song.’”

“The reason?”

“Fire code violations. And a tip about an illegal gathering.”

I heard the sound of pages turning on his end.

“It can be arranged. I’ve already spoken with Councilman Bill Morrison. But Miss Isabella, are you sure you want to do this?”

“I’m sure,” my voice was as hard as steel. “It’s time to collect my debt.”

After hanging up, I started doing the math.

Two years of using my club, rent-free. At prime New York rates, that’s worth $32 million.

The favors I cashed in for Vincenzo, a conservative estimate of $2.8 million.

Two years of security system upgrades and maintenance, $1 million.

All the expenses I fronted, from employee salaries to utility bills, $800,000.

And the lawyer’s fees and “expenses” my father paid to get Vincenzo out of that murder charge before he died, $500,000.

Total: $37.1 million.

And they wanted me to pay them $1.28 million.

I let out a cold laugh.

How should we settle this account?

I opened my laptop and started drafting a detailed list of debts owed.

Every dollar was documented. Every favor had a witness.

For two years, for this ungrateful bastard, I had nearly drained my own resources and connections.

Now, it was time for them to pay up.

At three in the morning, I finally finished all my preparations.

The copies of the evidence filled three whole briefcases.

One for Mr. Cohen, one for the District Attorney’s office, and one for me.

Tomorrow night, Don Moretti would arrive at the club on time.

Ava would be in her carefully chosen gown, strutting around like a proud peacock to greet her guest.

Vincenzo would be nervously watching his important new ally’s every reaction.

And then, at 10 PM sharp, the police would break down the door.

I glanced at the clock on the wall.

18 hours to go.

Vincenzo. Ava. The show is just getting started.