My fiancée slapped the nanny for comforting my daughter—then DNA test results revealed the truth about her.

Clara looked up from holding Rosie, her eyes wide with total shock. "My father...? He was Victor's father's partner?"

Victor walked over, reaching down to take Clara’s hand and helping her stand up from the floor. His broad palm was warm and steady against her trembling fingers.

"Seven years ago," Victor explained softly, looking into Clara’s soft eyes, "Arthur Bennett was the chief financial auditor for the Bellandi syndicate. He managed our family's off-shore trusts. One week before he mysteriously disappeared, he placed fifty million dollars into a private trust intended for his future grandchild."

Victor turned a sharp, lethal glare toward Celeste. "And the only way Celeste could gain control of that fifty-million-dollar trust was to present herself as the legal mother of my daughter."

Celeste backed up against the wall, her face pale as snow. "That's not true! I loved Rosie! I raised her!"

"You didn't raise her," Clara said, her voice growing stronger as maternal rage replaced her tears. "You locked her in the nursery with nannies every single day! You barely spoke to her! You only brought her out when you needed to show off for Victor's family council!"

Rosie nodded innocently, holding Clara's apron. "Mommy Clara reads me stories. Lady Celeste always yelled at me when I touched her dresses."

Victor took a deep, heavy breath, his broad chest heaving under his black dress shirt. He turned to Marcus. "Take Celeste down to the basement holding quarters. Strip her of her jewelry and lock the doors."

"You can't do this to me, Victor!" Celeste shrieked as two guards grabbed her arms, dragging her out of the ballroom. "My father is a council elder! The Bellandi family will tear you apart for this!"

"Let them try," Victor growled as the heavy doors slammed shut behind her.

Ten minutes later, Victor guided Clara and Rosie up the grand staircase into his private third-floor master suite. The room was warm and quiet, featuring a roaring stone fireplace, plush leather armchairs, and soft velvet sofas.

Rosie sat on the carpet near the fireplace, playing quietly with a set of wooden building blocks, her pale-pink dress spreading around her.

Clara sat on the edge of the sofa, holding a warm cup of chamomile tea Victor had handed her. She stared into the amber liquid, her hands still shaking.

"Victor..." Clara said softly, looking up at the broad-shouldered mob boss standing near the mantelpiece. "Why didn't you know? How could you let Celeste pretend to be her mother for seven years?"

Victor walked over, sitting in the leather chair beside her. He looked into Clara's eyes with raw, honest emotion. "Seven years ago, when you gave birth, I was ambushed in Chicago during a syndicate dispute. I was in a coma for two weeks. When I woke up, Celeste brought newborn Rosie to my bedside, showing me forged birth records signed by the clinic directors. She told me you had passed away during childbirth, and that she had taken the baby to save her."

Clara gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "She told you I died... and she told me my baby died."

"Yes," Victor said bitterly. "She played us both. But last month, when I noticed Rosie’s complete lack of physical resemblance to Celeste, I ordered Dr. Hayes to run a quiet, independent DNA match against the hospital’s archive records. And today... the truth finally came home."