My Mafia Boss Let His Family Accuse Me of Stealing—So I Left His Ring on the Table and Walked Away

Isabella backed away from the window, her pulse racing in her ears.

Carlo hadn't waited for the six a.m. train. He had told Uncle Sal that she was planning to go to the authorities, and Sal had sent his cleanest cleaner to make sure she never spoke.

The heavy door at the main entrance of her building slammed open downstairs.

Thud!

Heavy, deliberate footsteps began ascending the wooden stairs toward her second-floor apartment.

Isabella didn't panic. She had lived in Little Italy her whole life; she knew every escape route her father had built into the old building.

She grabbed her laptop, shoved the printed ledgers and the flash drive into her leather tote bag, and ran toward the back kitchen window that opened onto the rusty fire escape.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

"Miss Rossi," Franco’s low, heavy voice came through her front door. "Open the door. Don Salvatore wants to have a brief word with you."

Isabella unlocked the kitchen window, pushing the wooden frame up with all her strength. The cold morning air rushed into the room.

"I know you're inside, Miss Rossi," Franco said, his tone entirely devoid of emotion.

The sound of a heavy metal shoulder hitting her front door echoed through the apartment.

BANG!

The lock splintered.

Isabella threw her leg over the window sill, stepping onto the wet iron platform of the fire escape just as her front door was kicked wide open.

Franco stepped into her living room, pulling a suppressed handgun from inside his coat. He looked toward the open kitchen window and sprinted forward.

Isabella scrambled down the metal fire escape stairs, her sneakers slipping on the wet iron. She dropped into the narrow, dark alleyway below, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Isabella!" Franco called out from the second-floor window above, raising his weapon.

Phft! Phft!