Mafia Wife's Revenge: Unleashing My Fury

Aliana POV:

I feigned sleep when Ivan slid into bed late that night. The scent of Kiera's perfume, a cloying gardenia, clung to him like a second skin. It saturated the collar of his shirt, wreathed his hair, and stained his skin.

"Aliana?" he whispered, his hand stroking my back. "I'm sorry about today. The business with the port... it was unavoidable."

He was lying. The ease with which the words rolled off his tongue soured in my stomach.

"I'll make it up to you," he murmured, his lips brushing my shoulder. "We can go to the amusement park next week. I'll buy you that new Birkin you wanted."

He thought he could patch the gaping wound in my life with a purse.

I remained perfectly still as he pulled me into his embrace, my body a rigid column of ice. Ice-cold fury coursed through my veins, a poison far more potent than his lies. I focused on the steady rhythm of his breathing, waiting.

Once it evened into the deep, untroubled sleep of a man with no conscience, I slipped out of bed.

His home office was my destination-the one room in our sprawling mansion he always kept locked. "Sensitive documents," he'd said. "Family business."

I tried the obvious passwords. Our anniversary. His birthday. His mother's maiden name. Nothing.

Then, on a gut-wrenching impulse, my fingers typed in the date. My birthday.

Access Granted.

It was Leo's birthday, too. The door clicked open.

In a locked drawer, hidden beneath files for Hughes Bio-Tech, I found it. A leather-bound photo album. Not ours. Theirs.

I turned the pages, each one a fresh stab of betrayal. Ivan, Kiera, and Leo at the beach, the little boy perched on Ivan's shoulders. Them at Christmas, opening presents in front of a tree. And then, the one that stole the air from my lungs. A photo of all of them with my own parents, Richard and Eleanor Donovan, all of them beaming. My mother's arm was draped around Kiera. My father was looking at Leo with a pride he had never, not once, shown me.

I moved to his laptop. It opened without a password. He was that arrogant. That certain of my ignorance.

A private folder was labeled simply "L."

Inside were videos. Leo's first steps, Kiera's excited cry in the background. Leo's first word. "Dada." A scanned copy of his birth certificate. Father: Ivan Hughes. Mother: Kiera Reese.

I found a subfolder: "FINANCES."

It contained records of monthly transfers. Millions. From a Donovan holding company, one of my father's legitimate businesses, to a shell corporation. The memo on each one read: "Reese Gallery Investment."

My parents weren't just complicit. They were the architects. They had bankrolled the entire five-year deception. They had paid for the life that was stolen from me.

My hands trembled, feeling as if they belonged to someone else as I worked. I copied everything-every photo, every video, every damning bank statement-onto an encrypted USB drive I found in his desk.

I walked back to our bedroom, the evidence a cold, hard weight in my pocket. I picked up my phone and called the only person I could trust.

"Debi," I said, my voice a dead calm I didn't recognize as my own. "I need you to find out everything you can about Kiera Reese for the last five years. Everything."

And then, a final, cruel twist of the knife. My phone lit up with a text from an unknown number.

It was a photo. Kiera, Ivan, and Leo, a perfect family portrait taken today at the park. Ivan was looking at her with an adoration that twisted my insides.

The message below it was from her.

He says you're a convenient substitute. I think you're just convenient.

Nausea churned in my stomach, a final, weak protest of the woman I used to be. But the grief had already been cauterized by rage. All that was left was a resolute, world-destroying calm.