The Runaway Wife: Hiding The Don's Heir

Aurelia POV

The prime rib had turned a sickly gray, the fat congealing in the cold air. The candles had burned down to sputtering nubs, pooling wax onto the Belgian lace tablecloth I had picked out specifically for our first anniversary.

I sat at the head of the long mahogany table, my hands folded demurely in my lap. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed two in the morning, shattering the silence.

I was performing, after all. This was the final act in the tragedy of the dutiful wife.

The front door opened. Heavy footsteps echoed on the marble floor.

Jacob walked into the dining room. He stopped dead when he saw me. He looked wrecked, his hair messy, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.

He reeked of whiskey and the cloying, floral notes of Chanel No. 5. Kaleigh's signature scent.

He looked at the cold food, then at me. A flicker of sharp annoyance crossed his face.

"What the hell is this?" he asked.

"Dinner," I said, my voice steady as glass. "I thought a Don might appreciate a warm meal."

"I was working."

"Is that what she calls it now?"

I stood up. I walked around the table until I was standing right in front of him. I reached out and brushed my thumb over his collar.

There was a smudge of crimson lipstick stained against the crisp white fabric.

Jacob didn't pull away. He didn't offer a shadow of shame. He looked at me with that terrifying indifference, like I was nothing more than a piece of furniture that had started talking.

"Go to bed, Aurelia. You're being dramatic."

"Where is your ring, Jacob?"

He glanced at his left hand. It was bare.

"I took it off for a meeting. It commands the wrong kind of attention."

"Or maybe it just scratches Kaleigh's skin."

I reached into the pocket of my dress and pulled out the envelope. Not the one from the safe. A new one.

I slapped it against his chest.

"Sign these."

Jacob took the envelope. He opened it, scanned the header, and let out a short, harsh laugh.

"Divorce papers," he said. "Again with this?"

"I'm done, Jacob. I'm done being your incubator. I'm done being your banker."

"You don't divorce a Don," he said, his voice dropping to a lethal growl. "You leave in a coffin. That is the only exit clause."

He crumpled the papers in his fist and threw them onto the floor.

"You think you can threaten me?" he asked, stepping into my space. "You think you have any power here? You are alive because I allow it. You are wealthy because I allow it."

"I am wealthy because my father built an empire of steel and glass, not blood and bone," I snapped. "And you used that empire to wash your dirty money."

Jacob went dead still.

"I know about the shell companies," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "I know about the phantom construction projects in Jersey. I know you're funneling Syndicate profits through Flynn Architecture."

His eyes narrowed. "You designed those projects."

"I designed buildings. You turned them into laundromats."

I took a step back. "If you don't let me go, Jacob, I will burn it all down. I will hand every ledger, every blueprint, every transaction over to the FBI. I will ruin you."

For the first time in our marriage, I saw genuine emotion in his eyes.

It wasn't love. It was shock.

He hadn't realized the canary in the cage had learned to pick the lock.

"You would destroy your son's inheritance?" he asked softly.

"I would destroy his father's prison," I corrected.

Jacob looked at me for a long moment. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, he swept the entire table setting onto the floor.

Plates shattered. Crystal glasses exploded. The cold roast beef splattered across the expensive rug.

"Get out of my sight," he hissed. "Before I forget that you are carrying my blood."

I turned and walked away, the crunch of bone china under my heels sounding exactly like victory.