She Accused Me of Stealing My Own Business

Half an hour later, an email landed in everyone’s inbox at the estate. A notice of my punishment for “betrayal and embezzlement.”

The whispers in the hallways were like snakes slithering into my ears.

“Can’t believe Isabella would do something like that…”

“I always knew something was off with her. Acted like she owned the place, just ’cause she’s the old Don’s daughter.”

“Miss Ava’s got sharp eyes. Cleaned out a real leech for the family.”

I was packing my things when I heard the click-clack of high heels on the floor outside. Each step was deliberate, staking a claim.

“Isabella!”

Ava pushed the door open, a document in her hand and a triumphant smile on her face.

“Vincenzo signed it.” She slapped the paper down in front of me. “Three days. One million, two hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Not a penny less.”

I glanced at the so-called “debt notice.”

Vincenzo’s signature was crooked, like a confession of his own guilt and shame.

“Also,” Ava said, tilting her chin up, “from now on, you are forbidden from setting foot in ‘The Siren’s Song.’”

“Interesting.” I put down the document. “So, what about the three million a year in maintenance? Or the twenty grand a month for the wine cellar’s climate control? How are you planning to handle that?”

She froze. “What maintenance fees?”

“Security systems, liquor inventory, equipment upgrades, paying my key people,” I listed them off. “Oh, and that Persian rug you’re standing on? Five grand a month just to clean it.”

Ava’s face soured, but she quickly put her arrogant mask back on.

“That’s family business now. Not your problem.”

“Of course.” I gracefully signed the document. “It’s your club now, after all.”

Satisfied, she took the paper and turned to leave, then stopped.

“By the way, go clean your trash out of the club office.” She looked back at me, her eyes full of contempt. “I’m hosting the godfather of the Moretti family on Monday. I don’t want any of your junk lying around, making Vincenzo look bad.”

Moretti.

The godfather of the oldest family in New York.

I nodded. “I’ll handle it.”

Ava left, pleased with herself.

The moment the door closed, I picked up my phone.

“Mr. Cohen, it’s Bella.”

A wise, elderly voice answered. “Miss Isabella. I just heard about what happened at the estate.”

Mr. Cohen was my father’s old friend, the family’s most senior consigliere. Seventy years old, a master of both the law and the rules of the street.

“I need some advice,” I said in a low voice. “About how to deal with… stolen property.”

“Legal,” he asked, “or… not so legal?”

“Both.”

There was a pause on the line.

“I understand. Tomorrow, three o’clock, the usual place. And Isabella, don’t forget what your father taught you. Bring what’s in the hidden compartment in your office.”

After hanging up, I drove to “The Siren’s Song.”

This would probably be the last time I walked in here.

At least, as the owner.

The doorman, Tony, saw me, his face a mix of emotions.

“Miss Isabella…”

“I’m here to get a few things,” I said with a nod.

He hesitated, then let me in.

The elevator took me straight to the top-floor private office.

When I pushed the door open, I stopped cold.

My father’s photograph was off the wall, thrown in a corner with a footprint on it.

My private collection of Cuban cigars was snapped in half and tossed in the trash.

The good luck charm my father gave me was on the floor, covered in dust.

Ava was sitting in my chair, taking selfies with her phone.

“Hey girls, check out my new office!” she cooed to the camera. “From now on, ‘The Siren’s Song’ is my stage!”

She even posted a picture of herself sitting in my exclusive booth on Instagram.

The caption read: “The new queen has arrived. Some people’s time is over.”

I just stood there in the doorway, watching it all.

No anger. No pain.

Just the calm you feel when you’re watching a clown perform.

Ava finally noticed me. A flash of embarrassment crossed her face before she became defiant again.

“You’re just in time. Take this garbage with you,” she said, pointing to the things on the floor.

I ignored her and walked straight to the hidden panel behind the desk. I entered the code.

The panel slid open, and I took out a velvet document pouch.

Ava watched me, curious, but didn't dare to ask.

I bent down and picked up the good luck charm, gently wiped the dust off, and put it in the pocket closest to my heart.

I packed the document pouch and my personal things into a box, ready to leave.

“By the way, Isabella,” Ava called out suddenly. “Did you see the picture I just posted? It’s getting a lot of likes.”

I took out my phone and opened her social media page.

The picture of her in my booth already had hundreds of likes.

The comments were all fawning praise.

“I saw it.” I tapped the screen and gave her photo a like.

Ava clearly wasn’t expecting that. She looked confused.

“You’re… not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” I looked at her and smiled. “It’s a great angle. Perfectly captures your moment of glory.”

What I didn’t tell her was that the photo was perfect evidence of her illegal seizure of my property.

I didn’t tell her the folder I’d just taken held the deed, the building permits, and the holding company registration for “The Siren’s Song”—all in my name.

And I sure as hell didn’t tell her that the core security staff, the head bartender, the club manager… they were all my father’s old crew.

And the core crew of this club was loyal. They only answered to their real boss.