His Mafia Betrayal, My Unwanted Heir.

Isobel Stout POV

Consciousness returned not with the gentle warmth of sunlight, but with the cold, crushing weight of reality. The scent of sandalwood and expensive whiskey filled my lungs—a scent that definitely did not belong in my bedroom at the Stout estate.

I opened my eyes. The ceiling was unfamiliar, high and shadowed. I turned my head slowly, every muscle in my body aching with a dull, throbbing reminder of what I had done.

Beside me, sprawled across the dark silk sheets, lay Damien Flynn.

The Don of the Chicago Outfit was asleep, one arm thrown carelessly over his eyes. In repose, the lethal tension that usually radiated from him was gone, leaving only the hard lines of a man who commanded armies. On the nightstand, a gold cufflink gleamed in the early morning light, the Flynn family eagle etched into the metal staring at me like an accusing eye.

Panic, sharp and acidic, flooded my veins.

*Treason.*

The word screamed in my mind. I hadn't just slept with a man; I had slept with the enemy. If my father found out, he wouldn't just disown me. He would have me executed to cleanse the stain on his honor.

I held my breath, sliding out from under the heavy duvet. My legs trembled as my feet touched the cold floor. My dress, the expensive silk gown I had worn like armor last night, lay in a heap near the door. It was torn at the hem, a casualty of our urgency.

I dressed with frantic, clumsy fingers, my eyes never leaving Damien’s sleeping form. He didn't stir. I grabbed my heels, not daring to put them on, and crept toward the door. As I slipped into the corridor, leaving the lion’s den, I didn't feel the freedom I had claimed last night. I felt the crosshairs of a sniper rifle settling between my shoulder blades.

*

Three weeks later, the nausea started.

At first, I told myself it was stress. The atmosphere in the Stout estate had become suffocating since Janiyah officially took over as the lady of the house. She moved through the corridors like a viper in silk, her laughter echoing in places that used to be quiet.

I sat in the library, a stack of ledgers spread out before me. My father had always allowed me to audit the transport logs—it was the one area where he respected my intelligence. I had found discrepancies in the new contract Janiyah was pushing with a supplier from Jersey. The numbers didn't add up; someone was skimming off the top, and I knew exactly who.

"You're straining your pretty eyes for nothing, Isobel."

I looked up. Janiyah stood in the doorway, wearing a white cashmere dress that cost more than most soldiers made in a year.

"These rates are inflated by twenty percent," I said, my voice steady despite the roiling in my stomach. "If Father sees this—"

"Your father doesn't have time for the ramblings of a girl who can't even secure a husband," Janiyah interrupted, walking over to the desk. She placed a manicured hand on the open ledger and slammed it shut. The sound cracked like a gunshot.

"You are no longer privy to family business," she hissed, leaning down until I could smell her cloying perfume. "You are a liability. An expired asset. Go back to your room before I have the guards drag you there."

I wanted to scream, to throw the book at her, but a wave of bile rose in my throat. I clamped a hand over my mouth, pushed past her, and ran for the nearest bathroom.

I didn't see the triumphant smirk on her face as I fled, but I felt it.

*

The summons came two days later.

Arlene, the only maid who still looked at me with kindness, knocked on my door. Her face was pale, her hands wringing her apron.

"He wants to see you, Miss Isobel," she whispered. "In the study. Now."

"Is it about the ledgers?" I asked, though the dread pooling in my gut told me otherwise.

Arlene didn't answer. She just looked at me with watery eyes, as if she were looking at a ghost.

I walked down the hallway, the floorboards creaking under my feet like dry bones. The door to my father’s study was ajar. The smell of cigar smoke and stale scotch wafted out—the scent of judgment.

Elroy Stout was standing behind his massive mahogany desk. He wasn't looking at paperwork. He was staring at the wall, his back to me. Janiyah sat in the leather armchair in the corner, legs crossed, examining her fingernails.

"Father?" I said softly.

Elroy turned. His face was a mask of purple rage, veins bulging in his neck. He didn't speak. He simply picked up a piece of paper from his desk and hurled it across the room.

It fluttered through the air and struck my cheek, the sharp edge slicing the skin before falling to the floor.

I knelt to pick it up, my fingers shaking. It was a medical report from the doctor Janiyah had insisted I see for my "stomach bug."

My eyes scanned the clinical text, but only one word stood out. It was printed in bold, black ink, a death sentence stamped on white paper.

PREGNANT.

The air left the room.

"You whore," Elroy whispered, the sound more terrifying than a shout. He walked around the desk, his heavy steps vibrating through the floor. "You let some mongrel touch you? You defile my name under my own roof?"

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. The secret I had carried from that penthouse suite had grown into a bomb, and it had just detonated.

Elroy stopped inches from me, his shadow engulfing my trembling form. His eyes were devoid of fatherly love; there was only the cold, murderous calculation of a Capo whose property had been damaged.

"Tell me his name," he snarled, his hand hovering over the gun holstered at his hip. "Tell me who did this, so I can butcher him before I deal with you."