Dirty Moans With My Husband's Father

Episode8

OLIVIA

The heavy, wrought-iron gates of my family’s New York estate groaned open, welcoming my black town car into the freezing, rain-slicked courtyard. The bleak Manhattan weather matched the hollow ache in my chest.

I stared through the tinted window at the towering, gray stone facade of the only place I ever truly called home. Armed guards in thick black coats patrolled the perimeter, their breath pluming in the icy air. It had been two years since I last stepped foot on this property. Two years of an Italian cage.

That's when the car stopped.

When the driver opened my door, the biting, bitter wind immediately whipped my hair across my face and chilled my skin through my thin wool coat.

Michael was already standing at the top of the marble steps, in a dark navy sweater.

Getting out, I climbed the steps.

And when I was close enough, he didn't say a word. He just reached out and pulled me into a crushing hug.

The scent of his familiar cologne and the faint smell of polished mahogany from the foyer hit my nose. A hard, violent sob tore its way out of my throat. I buried my face in his shoulder, letting the sheer weight of the last forty-eight hours crash down on me.

"I've missed you, Livie," Michael murmured, rubbing a heavy hand up and down my back.

He pulled me inside the grand foyer after anout half an hour of catching up. He was one of the real ones I had left.

He led me into the parlor after that. The fireplace crackled there, throwing warm, orange light across the expensive leather furniture. He poured a glass of amber scotch and pressed it into my freezing hands.

"You look like a ghost," he said, sitting heavily on the sofa opposite me. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His dark eyes searched my face. "What the hell is happening, Olivia? I got the notification from the board yesterday. Twenty-five percent of your father's shares were transferred to an offshore holding company. Bruno presented a document with your exact signature."

I took a burning swallow of the scotch. The alcohol seared a hot path down my throat.

"He forged it. He had someone perfectly copy my signature on a proxy transfer form."

Michael’s jaw clamped shut. A muscle feathered in his cheek. "Why? He is the underboss of the most powerful syndicate in Europe. He has endless money. Why would he steal your legacy?"

Shame burned the back of my neck. I stared down at the amber liquid in my glass. I could not tell him about Isabella. I could not speak the humiliating truth into existence—that my husband stole my birthright to gift it to a pregnant street rat as a push present. My pride was already a shattered, bloody mess on the floor. I refused to let my cousin see the pathetic reality of my marriage.

"Greed," I lied, keeping my voice flat. "It is just pure, unadulterated greed. He wants total control over the American supply routes, and my shares give him a seat on the board."

Michael let out a harsh, frustrated breath. He rubbed a hand over his tired face. "Go to sleep, Olivia. We have a meeting with Elias first thing in the morning. We will fix this."

I didn't argue. After catching up again, I set the glass down and walked up the grand staircase to my old bedroom, falling onto the mattress in my clothes and passing out from sheer mental exhaustion.

The next morning, the relentless New York rain continued to batter the tall penthouse windows.

Elias Thorne, my father’s most trusted corporate attorney was already there, sitting behind the mahogany desk in the estate’s private study. He wore a sharp gray suit, but the dark, heavy bags under his eyes aged him a decade.

Papers covered the desk.

I sat next to Michael in the high-backed leather chairs. The room smelled of old paper, bitter coffee, and cigar smoke.

"The forgery is immaculate, Olivia," Elias stated, sliding a copy of the transfer document across the polished wood.

I stared at the black ink. It was my handwriting. Every loop, every sharp angle.

"It’s a fake. I was in Sicily the day this was allegedly signed in front of a New York notary. You can check my passport."

"I did," Elias replied, leaning back in his chair. He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "But that is where the legal reality crashes into the mafia reality. Under the syndicate's operational bylaws, which your father integrated into this company's charter to maintain the peace, Bruno has full spousal proxy. He doesn't even need a physical notary if he claims he was acting on your verbal instruction as your husband."

"That is bullshit," Michael snapped, slamming his hand on the armrest. "She is the sole heir. Her father explicitly protected those shares in a trust."

"A trust that dissolved the moment she married an Italian underboss," Elias shot back, his voice rising. "Bruno brought an army of corporate sharks to the board meeting. They presented the document. The board accepted it."

"Then we go to the authorities," I said. My voice sounded remarkably steady despite the violent pounding of my heart. "We report the fraud to the federal authorities. We freeze the offshore accounts."

Elias looked at me with deep, pitying sadness.

"Olivia, if you invite the feds to audit that transfer, they will audit the entire company. They will find the laundered syndicate money your father buried in the shipping manifests ten years ago. The Italian families will retaliate. Bruno will not just go to jail. He will go to war. He will slaughter the entire board, he will slaughter Michael, and he will slaughter you."

A heavy, suffocating silence dropped over the study. The rain lashed furiously against the glass.

"So there is no loophole," Michael said quietly, staring blankly at the wall. "He stole her company, and we just have to let him keep it."

"Unless you can force Bruno to voluntarily sign the shares back over to you," Elias said, packing the papers into a thick leather briefcase. "There is no clean, legal way out of this mess. His forgery is airtight because the board is too terrified of his family to challenge it."

I locked my bedroom door and leaned my back against the heavy wood.

The grim reality pressed down on my chest, crushing the last of my hope. Elias was right. I was trapped in a legal and criminal deadlock.

My mind betrayed me. It instantly drifted back to the ruined dining room in Italy. To the smell of cedar and gunpowder.

I will return all twenty-five percent of your father's company directly to your name.

Antonio could fix this. The Don of the Italian Mafia wouldn't need a lawyer or a loophole. He would simply point a gun at the board of directors and demand the shares back. He would crush Bruno without a second thought.

All I had to do was surrender. All I had to do was submit to his dark, consuming obsession and let him own me completely.

I pushed off the door.

No.

I refused to trade Bruno's cruel cage for Antonio's terrifying obsession. I was an American heiress. I had my own fangs. If the board was too scared of Bruno to invalidate the shares, then I would drag my husband into a brutal, highly public divorce court. I would expose his illegal assets during discovery. I would scorch the earth and burn the entire company down before I let him hand it to his mistress.

Determined, I walked into my massive walk-in closet and dragged my heavy leather suitcase onto the velvet ottoman. I unzipped the main compartment and started pulling out my clothes, separating my silk dresses from my heavy coats.

I reached into the hidden mesh pocket in the lining to retrieve my documents. My fingers brushed the smooth nylon.

I frowned. Where was it?

I dug my hand deeper into the pocket.

Nothing.

A cold, icy prickle of unease broke out across my scalp. I ripped the mesh pocket wide open. I pulled the suitcase toward me and frantically dug through the folded clothes, tossing silk and lace onto the floor.

My breathing picked up. My chest tightened. I dumped the entire contents of the suitcase onto the rug. I fell to my knees, my hands shaking violently as I patted down the empty pockets.

It wasn't there.

All the saliva dried in my mouth. A sickening, visceral wave of pure terror crashed over my head, completely stealing the air from my lungs. My stomach violently roiled.

My red leather journal.

The private journal where I documented the offshore account passwords my father left me.

The journal where I kept the hidden vault codes.

I left it in the bottom drawer of my vanity in Italy.

In the exact room Bruno occupied.

If Bruno found that book….

No no, no no no!