Bound To The Ruthless Mafia Heir; Claimed By His Brother

Chapter Eleven: Eavesdropping

It had been four days since that night in his room, and I still couldn't shake the humiliation.

Every time I closed my eyes, I remembered the heat of my own body and the freezing look in Cassian’s eyes while he watched me touch myself.

It made me feel sick, a mix of pure shame and a weird, lingering anger. I was completely trapped in my own head, reliving every single second of it over and over.

But that wasn't the only thing keeping me awake at night. The words from that hidden file in the archives were practically burned into my brain.

I started watching him like a hawk, keeping my mouth shut and my eyes open. When you're forced to stay quiet, you start noticing the tiny details everyone else misses.

Like at dinner, for example. The guards would walk into the dining room and hand folders straight to Cassian without a single word. No discussion, no briefing, just silent exchanges while he read them over his steak. It wasn't normal mafia business. It felt like he was actively hiding things from the rest of the family.

Then there was the doctor. I noticed a guy in a dark suit who showed up every single Thursday without any prior notice or announcement. He didn't use the front entrance either, always slipping through the side door near Cassian's private wing.

The biggest red flag happened two days ago when I went to drop off some paperwork. I caught a glimpse of a small silver medication tray sitting right on the edge of Cassian's desk.

The bottles had heavy medical labels, but before I could get close enough to read the names, Alberto practically snatched the tray away and hid it in a drawer.

I didn't say a word about it. I just nodded, pretended I didn't see anything, and walked back to my room. Playing dumb was becoming my best survival strategy in this house.

"Belinda, sit down," Cassian said, breaking the silence in his study later that morning.

I walked into the room, keeping my face completely blank. "What do you need?"

He gestured to a thick stack of papers resting in the center of his desk. "I want you to look over these files for me."

I raised my eyebrow, but I didn't let him see my confusion. "What are they?"

"It is a trade agreement between the Moretti faction and a shipping company based out of Sicily," he said, adjusting his cuffs. "I want you to check the logistics and ensure the numbers align with our standard rates."

"You want me to do this?" I asked, testing the waters. "Don't you usually have Rafael or Alberto handle the shipping contracts?”

Cassian’s eyes hardened. "I asked you to do it. Your father taught you how to read a ledger, didn't he?"

"He did," I said, stepping closer and picking up the first folder. "I can handle it."

"Good," he said, rolling his wheelchair away from the desk toward the door. "I have a meeting later, so I expect you to be thorough."

I watched him roll out of the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. I stood there for a second, totally stunned.

He was actually leaving me alone in his office with active business documents. He trusted me, or he was testing me, and I couldn't figure out which one it was. One thing I knew was that I was definitely going to do my job.

I sat down in his leather chair, the scent of his expensive cologne wrapping around me. I shook the feeling off and flipped open the first file, focusing entirely on the columns of numbers. The Sicilian company was moving a massive amount of cargo through the New York docks, mostly industrial machinery and textiles.

For the first hour, everything looked completely standard. The shipping rates matched the market value, and the insurance payouts were properly logged. But as I dug deeper into the secondary accounts and the local distribution fees, something caught my eye.

There was a recurring monthly payment listed under administrative costs. It was a massive sum of money, too much for the actual services being provided. The funds were being wired directly to an offshore account owned by a company called Varga Holdings.

My breath caught in my throat. Varga Holdings.

I knew that name. I had seen it dozens of times in the private financial ledgers back at my father's house before I was married off. It was one of the primary shell companies the Rossi family used to launder money from our construction rackets.

"What the hell is Cassian doing paying a Rossi shell company?" I muttered to myself, staring at the screen.

The payments had been going on for over a year, long before our marriage was even proposed. It didn't make any sense. If the Morettis and the Rossis were rivals back then, why was Cassian secretly funneling millions of dollars into my father's pocket?

I grabbed a pen, quickly making a small, subtle mark near the account number so I could find it again later. My mind was spinning with a million different theories, each one more dangerous than the last.

Was my father blackmailing him?

Or were they working together on something completely hidden from both families?

I closed the folder tightly when I heard footsteps in the hallway. I leaned back in the chair, forcing my heart rate to slow down as the door opened.

Alberto walked in, his eyes immediately landing on the files in front of me. "Are you finished, Mrs. Moretti?"

"Almost," I said, keeping my voice steady and professional. "There's a lot of data to go through, but the logistics seem solid so far."

"Alpha Cassian requires the files back in the safe once you are done," Alberto said, standing by the door like a shadow.

"I'll put them away myself when I finish the final page," I replied, giving him a tight smile. "You can tell him everything is on track."

He gave a stiff nod and walked back out, leaving me alone with the burning secret in my hands. I chose not to say anything to Cassian when he returned later that afternoon. I just handed him the reports, told him the numbers cleared, and watched him lock them away in his private safe.

By Thursday evening, the tension in the house was thick enough to cut with a knife. I was walking down the secondary corridor near the medical wing, trying to make it back to my room before the night guards shifted positions and caught me walking about.

As I approached the private clinic room, I noticed the door wasn't fully closed. A thin line of light spilled out onto the carpet, and the sound of muffled voices stopped me in my tracks.

The Thursday doctor was still here, and he had been inside with Cassian for over two hours. That was way longer than his usual quick checkups.

I stepped closer to the wall, holding my breath so I wouldn't make a sound. My heart was pounding against my ribs as I leaned my ear toward the gap in the door.

"The latest blood work shows the toxins are still present," the doctor's voice said, sounding incredibly stressed. "We are pushing the limit here, Cassian."

"I don't care about the limits," Cassian's voice barked back, low and dangerous. "Keep the dosage exactly where it is."

"You don't understand the physical toll," the doctor argued, his tone rising slightly before he checked himself. "The dosage has kept him stable, but the nerve damage is becoming permanent. If it continues for another six months, recovery of mobility will be impossible.”