My Mafia Husband Chose His ""Little Sister""—Until My Real Last Name Brought His Entire Syndicate To Its Knees

While Vincent was desperately scrambling to divert his doomed cargo ship, Sophia Reynolds was sitting in an upscale boutique on Oak Street, completely oblivious to the tidal wave crashing toward her.

She had spent three years positioning herself as the delicate, tragic flower in Vincent’s life—the woman who had lost her parents young, the girl the Moretti family felt obligated to protect. She used that sympathy like a scalpel, cutting small pieces of my marriage away month by month. She would call Vincent at 2:00 AM with fake panic attacks; she would drop by his office with his favorite lunch; she would deliberately leave her lip gloss in his car so I would find it.

And Vincent, blinded by his male savior complex, fell for every single tear.

I stepped out of the Maybach in front of the boutique, flanked by two plainclothes security guards. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, I saw Sophia sipping champagne while a sales associate draped a four-thousand-dollar cashmere coat over her shoulders. She was laughing, looking completely unaffected by the storm she had unleashed.

The boutique’s bell chimed as I walked in. Sophia turned, a triumphant, mock-sympathetic smirk already forming on her glossy lips.

""Claire,"" she purred, waving the sales assistant away. ""I was hoping we could talk. You really overreacted yesterday. Vincent loves you, you know. He just feels sorry for me because of my family’s debt. You shouldn't be so insecure.""

I didn't answer. I walked straight up to her. Before she could register the cold fury in my eyes, I swung my arm and struck her across the face.

The slap echoed through the quiet boutique like a gunshot.

Sophia stumbled sideways, knocking over a display stand of Italian leather handbags, her champagne glass shattering across the pristine marble floor. She hit the ground, clutching her cheek, her eyes wide with shock and horror.

""You hit me!"" she shrieked, tears instantly flooding her eyes—the same theatrical tears she always used on Vincent. ""You crazy bitch, I’ll have Vittorio bury you in the harbor!""

""Vittorio can barely keep his own head above water today, Sophia,"" I said, stepping over the spilled wine until the toe of my designer heel was inches from her face. ""And as for your tragic little sob story about your father’s bankrupt business? Let’s talk about that.""

I snapped my fingers. Marcus stepped forward and tossed a manila folder onto Sophia’s lap.

""Your father didn't lose his business to bad luck,"" I stated coldly. ""He lost it because you spent the last two years embezzling funds from the Moretti charity foundation—the very foundation my family secretly funded. You gambled it away in underground private rooms in Macau, and when the debt came due, you ran to Vincent, begging him to cover your markers while batting your eyelashes.""

Sophia looked down at the bank statements and casino debt receipts scattered over her legs. Her theatrical tears suddenly stopped, replaced by a ghastly, hollow dread.

""Vincent doesn't know about these records yet,"" I whispered, leaning down so only she could hear me. ""He thinks you’re an innocent victim he needs to save from the cruel world. But within the hour, these will be delivered to the Moretti council. In their world, stealing from the family treasury isn't solved with an apology, Sophia. It’s solved with a shallow ditch in Indiana.""