My Mafia Husband Threw Me Out at Midnight—Then I Found Out He Was Trying to Die for Me.

The words hung in the damp air of the quiet alley like a physical weight, pressing against my lungs until I couldn't breathe.

"Matteo?" I whispered, my voice breaking for the very first time tonight. "No. That's impossible. Matteo works the port terminals in Indiana. He doesn't touch the Chicago executive board."

"He took five million dollars from Falcone six months ago, Bianca," Sofia said, pulling a encrypted laptop from beneath her seat and opening the screen. The blue light illuminated the sharp lines of her face. "I found the routing numbers three days ago buried in a dummy account out of Panama. I took the proof to Carlo."

My mind raced back through the last six months. My younger brother, Matteo—the boy I had protected when our parents died in a car crash fifteen years ago, the boy Carlo had brought into the family business, given a territory, given respect, given a future.

"Carlo knew?" I asked, my blood running cold.

"Carlo found out seventy-two hours ago," Sofia explained, her fingers dancing across her keyboard. "He didn't execute Matteo because he knew it would destroy you. He was trying to buy the debt back from Falcone quietly. But Falcone didn't want the money. Falcone used Matteo’s debt to force him to hand over the master security overrides for the penthouse and the perimeter guards."

I closed my eyes.

Everything connected with a terrifying, crystal-clear precision.

Carlo hadn't just thrown me out to save me from Falcone. He had done it because he realized the betrayal came from my blood. He knew that if Falcone brought Carlo down tonight, the Barbieri syndicate would demand my life as retribution for my brother's treason. He was protecting me from Falcone, and he was protecting me from his own men.

"Where is Matteo now?" I asked, opening my eyes. The shock was gone, burned away by a cold, surgical rage.

"He's at the high-rise," Sofia said softly. "He's in the penthouse with Falcone right now. Falcone promised him control of the Indiana docks once Carlo signs over the corporate deeds."

"And Carlo won't sign," I stated.

"He won't sign until he knows you're safe in Switzerland," Sofia said. "Once he gets confirmation that your plane has taken off, Carlo will let them kill him before he hands over a single square foot of Chicago."

I grabbed the back of Sofia's chair, pulling myself closer to her laptop screen. "Show me the security feeds."

"Bianca, no—"

"Show me the feeds, Sofia! You built the secondary blind-access servers for the penthouse! I know you have a back door!"

Sofia hesitated, looking at my blood-stained robe and the cold determination in my eyes. With a heavy sigh, she tapped three keys. A four-way split screen appeared on her display, broadcasting live, high-definition footage from inside my home.

The first box showed the grand dining room. Four of Falcone's armed guards were going through our wall safe, tossing silver serving sets and ancient family ledgers onto the hardwood floor.

The second box showed the private elevator lobby. Two dead Barbieri guards were slumped against the wall, their weapons missing.

The third box showed the primary living room.

Carlo was tied to a heavy iron chair in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. His face was swollen, blood trickling from his lip down his neck, but his expression was completely detached, almost bored. Standing directly in front of him was Trent Falcone—a short, immaculate man in a fifty-thousand-dollar gray suit, holding a silver-plated revolver against Carlo's temple.

And standing off to the side, looking at his expensive leather shoes while holding a tumbler of scotch, was my brother, Matteo.

My hands clenched into tight fists, my nails biting into my palms until I felt skin break.

"They're going to torture him until the three-o'clock wire window opens," I murmured, staring at the timestamp at the bottom of the screen. It was 1:15 AM. "Falcone needs Carlo’s biometric voice print to authorize the asset transfers to the Cayman accounts. That wire system doesn't open until 3:00 AM Eastern time."

"That gives us less than two hours," Sofia whispered. "What can we do? We don't have an army, Bianca. The loyalty capos are pinned down at the docks in South Chicago. Falcone blocked the bridge access."

"We don't need an army," I said, reaching into my robe pocket and pulling out my personal cell phone—the one Carlo had ignored when he threw me out. "We need leverage."

I looked at Sofia. "The second vault beneath the laundry facility in Cicero. The one Carlo told everyone was empty."