She Accused Me of Stealing My Own Business

Monday night, 9 PM. “The Siren’s Song” was lit up like a jewel box.

Vincenzo stood in the center of the main hall, dressed in a custom-tailored black suit.

His men were scattered around, every one of them on edge.

Tonight’s meeting was everything.

The Moretti family’s backing meant Vincenzo could finally plant his flag firmly in New York.

“Is the wine ready?” Vincenzo asked, one last check.

“The 1947 Macallan is ready to go,” Ava answered confidently. She was wearing a black silk gown, a diamond necklace sparkling at her throat. “I told the bartender to go get it.”

A few minutes later, the bartender ran up to them, his face pale. “Boss, Miss Ava… the wine cellar… it won’t open. The display says it’s on Isabella’s biometric lock.”

Ava’s face froze. Vincenzo’s jaw tightened.

At the mention of my name, his expression darkened, but he didn’t say a word.

At 9:20, Ava came downstairs, forcing a look of calm.

“I’m ready,” she said, her chin high. “Mr. Moretti will be impressed by my professionalism.”

At 9:30 on the dot, three black Rolls-Royces pulled up to the club’s entrance.

Ava took a deep breath and smoothed her dress.

She was going to greet the legendary godfather herself.

Prove she deserved the title of “lady of the house.”

But the moment she pushed the main doors open, the entire street was flooded with blinding police lights.

A dozen cop cars and three SWAT trucks swarmed in from every direction, surrounding the club.

“NYPD! EVERYBODY INSIDE, LISTEN UP!” a voice boomed over a loudspeaker. “WE HAVE A WARRANT FOR THIS ESTABLISHMENT BASED ON REPORTS OF ILLEGAL GANG ACTIVITY AND MULTIPLE FIRE CODE VIOLATIONS! EVERYONE OUT! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!”

Cops in tactical gear stormed the hall.

Ava’s face went white as a sheet.

She stared at the chaos, her legs about to give out.

“No… impossible…” she stammered. “I paid them off!”

Vincenzo’s face was stone.

This was a humiliation.

In front of his most important potential ally, his own territory was being raided by the cops.

“EVERYONE AGAINST THE WALL! GET READY FOR INSPECTION!”

The police started clearing the room as panicked guests scrambled for the exit.

Through the chaos, Vincenzo saw the Rolls-Royce parked across the street.

The window rolled down, revealing the old but sharp face of Don Moretti.

He was watching the whole thing with a cold, analytical stare.

“Dammit!” Vincenzo cursed. “How are there so many cops? That’s the head of the city’s anti-gang unit leading the raid!”

His head snapped around, and he looked across the street to an art gallery. I was standing there, holding a wine glass, watching the show through the window.

“Isabella!”

Vincenzo stormed out of the club, ignoring the cops shouting at him, and ran toward me like a madman.

He threw open the gallery door and saw a sight that made his blood boil.

I was sitting on a sofa, casually sipping red wine.

Like the chaos outside had nothing to do with me.

“Isabella!” He rushed up to me, his eyes burning with fury. “Fix this! Now!”

I looked up at him, my expression as calm as a still lake.

“What problem?”

“The cops! They’ve surrounded the club!” he hissed. “Use your connections. Get them to back off! Immediately!”

I took a small sip of wine.

“Vincenzo, you’re confused about something.”

“What?”

“The Siren’s Song is your club now,” I said, setting down my glass. My voice was pure ice. “And your fuck-ups are not my problem.”

He froze.

“Isabella, this is not the time for jokes! Mr. Moretti is right outside!”

“Then you should probably go handle it,” I said, picking up my glass again. “After all, you’re the man in charge now.”

“You…” He started to say something, but was cut off by a voice from outside.

“Vincenzo?”

An old but powerful voice.

Don Moretti had gotten out of his car and was now standing in the gallery doorway.

He was a tall man. Even in his seventies, he radiated an aura of pure menace.

Four bodyguards stood behind him.

Vincenzo’s face went pale.

“Mr. Moretti, I…”

“This is how you welcome an ally?” the old Don’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You have me step out of my car into the middle of a police raid?”

“No, sir, it’s a misunderstanding…” Vincenzo stammered, trying to explain.

Moretti’s gaze shifted to me.

I stood up gracefully and gave him a slight nod of respect.

“Isabella Rossi,” he said, recognizing me. “Your father’s daughter.”

“Yes, Mr. Moretti,” I replied.

“What are you doing here?” he frowned. “Shouldn’t you be in the club, running things?”

Vincenzo’s face turned even whiter.

“She… she’s not in charge of the club anymore.”

“Oh?” Moretti turned to me. “And why is that?”

I glanced at Vincenzo, then answered.

“Because the place is too small for me. They stole my business and kicked me out,” I said, my voice calm, but every word was a razor’s edge. “So now I have to drink next door.”

The look in Don Moretti’s eyes turned dangerous.

He looked at Vincenzo, then back at the club, surrounded by police.

“I see.”

His voice was heavy with deep disappointment.