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.

“Miss Isabella, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this.”

The next morning, Vincenzo’s right-hand man, Marco, stood in front of me, his eyes darting around nervously.

“The Boss has decided you’re out. Effective immediately.”

I put down my coffee cup and looked at the man who used to bow and scrape before me.

“By the book,” Marco added, his voice even lower, “you need to hand over your ring.”

I calmly slid the ring I’d worn for ten years off my finger and placed it on the tray he was holding.

“Ava’s taking over all your operations.”

“I understand,” I nodded. “Is there anything you need from me for the transition?”

Marco looked stunned by my cooperation.

“Uh… Miss Ava said she’ll contact you directly.”

As if on cue, the sound of high heels echoed from the hallway.

Click, clack, click.

Ava strode in, followed by two young men I didn’t recognize.

“Isabella, I’m here to take over your work,” she announced proudly.

Today she was wearing a red suit, like a peacock showing off its feathers.

“Of course.” I stood up gracefully. “What do you need?”

“The files on the Moretti family,” she said, straight to the point. “The old godfather’s likes, dislikes, every detail.”

I looked at her eager face and felt a wave of pity.

“Mr. Moretti is old-school. He likes 1947 Macallan whisky,” I said slowly. “He doesn’t smoke, but he enjoys the aroma of a good Cuban cigar.”

Ava dutifully took notes.

“Anything else?”

“He’s an art expert, especially Renaissance paintings,” I continued. “Most importantly, he respects young people with guts who aren’t afraid to show what they can do. You have to grab the opportunity and let him see your talent.”

“Okay, what else?”

I paused and looked at her with a smile.

“He values tradition and respect. Remember, the first impression is everything.”

What I didn’t tell her was that old man Moretti hated nothing more than new-money show-offs who didn’t know the rules. Especially little nobodies who tried to act smart in front of him and challenge his authority.

“Thanks,” Ava said, closing her notebook. “You can go now.”

That afternoon, I was shopping at Bergdorf Goodman on Fifth Avenue.

As I was picking out a Hermès scarf, my phone buzzed.

A notification from my car’s tracking system: my bulletproof Bentley was on the move.

I frowned. The keys were right here in my bag. Oh, right. The spare key Vincenzo had.

Through the storefront window, I saw a disgusting sight.

My Bentley was stopped at a red light, with Vincenzo behind the wheel.

In the passenger seat, Ava was touching up her lipstick in the mirror.

She saw me in the window, slowly rolled down her window, and gave me a fake, triumphant smile.

Then, she deliberately tossed the half-finished milkshake cup in her hand onto the sidewalk, right at my feet.

“Sorry, Isabella,” she mouthed. “No room for trash in the car.”

I just watched her, a smug look on her face.

Then my phone buzzed again.

A spending alert from my bank.

My secondary Black Card had just been charged for $85,000.

Location: Cartier.

I immediately called the bank.

“Hello, I need to report a stolen card and freeze the account.”

“Of course, Miss Isabella. We’re processing that for you now.”

I could have locked the car remotely, left them stranded in the middle of Fifth Avenue traffic.

But I didn’t.

When I locked them down, it had to be at a moment they’d never forget.

I dialed another number.

“Bill, it’s me.”

“Isabella? My God, how long has it been?” A cheerful laugh came through the phone.

Bill Morrison, a senior councilman for the city of New York. Fifteen years ago, he was a small-time lawyer hustling in Brooklyn. My father helped him out of a jam, which gave him his shot at politics.

“I’d like to have a coffee with you, Bill.”

“Of course! The usual place?”

“The usual place.”

An hour later, I was sitting in a cafe near City Hall.

Bill looked older than he did on TV, but his eyes were just as sharp.

“I was so sorry to hear about your father, Isabella,” he said, holding his coffee cup. “He was a good man.”

“Thank you.” I nodded. “I came today to discuss a… business matter.”

“What’s on your mind?”

I took the velvet document pouch from my bag, the one I’d taken from the club’s hidden compartment.

“It’s about the business license for ‘The Siren’s Song’ club, its fire safety permits, and its annual district review.”

Bill’s expression turned serious.

“Tell me more.”

I pushed the deed and the holding company certificates across the table to him.

“All the licenses and the deed for ‘The Siren’s Song’ are in my name,” I said slowly. “But someone is trying to take it from me. Illegally.”

Bill carefully looked through the documents.

“This is all in your name, that’s for sure,” he said, looking up at me. “But this illegal seizure you mentioned…”

“Someone forged account books, framed me for skimming, and then seized control of the club.”

My voice was calm, but Bill was sharp enough to hear the rage underneath.

“What do you need me to do?”

“According to regulations, when does the annual district safety review begin?”

Bill understood what I was getting at.

“Next week. But… with a serious enough tip—say, an illegal gathering and major fire hazards—we could arrange a joint raid with the Fire Department and the NYPD anytime.”

“Good.” I stood up with a smile. “The more people, the bigger the spectacle, the better.”

“Isabella,” he called out as I turned to leave. “Be careful. This city’s a deep pond.”

“I know.” I looked back at him. “But if we’re going to settle this, I’m taking the whole damn board.”

For the next few days, Ava was completely lost in her new role as “lady of the house.”

Her Instagram was a flood of updates.

In the morning, it was photos of her “working” in the club office, which really meant taking selfies.

At noon, it was “professional” shots of her directing waiters on how to set the tables.

At night, it was her "struggling" to choose between different evening gowns.

Every picture came with a cringey caption.

“Gotta make sure every detail is perfect for Don Moretti’s visit.”

“A lot of responsibility, but I believe in myself.”

“A day in the life of a boss.”

Underneath, a chorus of Vincenzo’s men liked and commented, calling her the “new Godmother” and saying the “future is bright.”

I watched her little performance quietly.

I liked her posts. I shared them. I even left a supportive comment: “Go get ‘em, you can do this.”

She replied faster than the speed of light: “Thanks for the support, sis!”

Poor thing. She still thought we were friends.

Friday night at nine, my phone rang.

The caller ID said: Vincenzo.

“Isabella, what the hell is this?” His voice was tight with suppressed rage.

“What’s what?” I was at home, sipping a glass of red wine, my tone as casual as if we were talking about the weather.

“Ava’s card! Why was it frozen? She was at an auction, trying to buy a necklace, and the card was declined!”

“Oh, that card.” I pretended to just remember. “It was reported stolen, so I had to freeze it for security.”

There was a few seconds of silence on the line.

“Stolen?”

“Yeah, someone charged over eighty grand at Cartier,” I said lightly. “You know how bold these thieves are getting.”

“Isabella, cut the shit,” Vincenzo’s voice turned dangerous. “Unfreeze the card. Now.”

“Afraid I can’t.” I took a sip of wine. “The bank said they have to investigate. Could take a month.”

“A month?” his voice shot up. “Do you have any idea how much stuff we need to buy to host Moretti tomorrow?”

“That’s not my problem,” my voice suddenly went cold. “Vincenzo, your woman is buying things. Why is she using my money? Is the family treasury empty?”

The question hit his pride like a needle.

The Vincenzo family had money, but their cash flow was always tight. Most of it was tied up in expanding their territory and buying weapons.

“You’re getting revenge,” he hissed.

“Revenge?” I laughed softly. “Vincenzo, you’re giving me too much credit. I’m just a nobody now, kicked to the curb. How could I get revenge?”

He seemed like he wanted to say something else, but in the end, he just slammed the phone down.

I put my phone down and continued to sip my wine.

The New York skyline glittered outside my window.

This was just the beginning.

Soon, the whole city would have a front-row seat to a hell of a show.

On Sunday night, I sat in my home office, my desk covered in documents.

Every single one was a piece of carefully organized evidence.

The deed to “The Siren’s Song,” the bank records of me covering Vincenzo’s weapons deals and paying off officials, even screenshots of Ava’s selfies.

I dialed Mr. Cohen’s number.

“Miss Isabella, still up so late?” The old lawyer’s voice was as sharp as ever.

“There’s something I need your help with.” I looked at the papers on my desk. “Tomorrow night, ten o’clock sharp. I need the NYPD and the Fire Department to conduct a joint raid on ‘The Siren’s Song.’”

“The reason?”

“Fire code violations. And a tip about an illegal gathering.”

I heard the sound of pages turning on his end.

“It can be arranged. I’ve already spoken with Councilman Bill Morrison. But Miss Isabella, are you sure you want to do this?”

“I’m sure,” my voice was as hard as steel. “It’s time to collect my debt.”

After hanging up, I started doing the math.

Two years of using my club, rent-free. At prime New York rates, that’s worth $32 million.

The favors I cashed in for Vincenzo, a conservative estimate of $2.8 million.

Two years of security system upgrades and maintenance, $1 million.

All the expenses I fronted, from employee salaries to utility bills, $800,000.

And the lawyer’s fees and “expenses” my father paid to get Vincenzo out of that murder charge before he died, $500,000.

Total: $37.1 million.

And they wanted me to pay them $1.28 million.

I let out a cold laugh.

How should we settle this account?

I opened my laptop and started drafting a detailed list of debts owed.

Every dollar was documented. Every favor had a witness.

For two years, for this ungrateful bastard, I had nearly drained my own resources and connections.

Now, it was time for them to pay up.

At three in the morning, I finally finished all my preparations.

The copies of the evidence filled three whole briefcases.

One for Mr. Cohen, one for the District Attorney’s office, and one for me.

Tomorrow night, Don Moretti would arrive at the club on time.

Ava would be in her carefully chosen gown, strutting around like a proud peacock to greet her guest.

Vincenzo would be nervously watching his important new ally’s every reaction.

And then, at 10 PM sharp, the police would break down the door.

I glanced at the clock on the wall.

18 hours to go.

Vincenzo. Ava. The show is just getting started.