The Mafia Boss’s Mistress Slapped His Wife at Their Anniversary—Their 3 Sons Made Her Beg

Arthur slowly rose to his feet across the glass conference table, his fifty-four-year-old frame radiating the cold, old-school violence that had made him a terror on the streets thirty years ago.

"Watch your mouth, boy," Arthur growled, leaning both palms on the glass and glaring at his eldest son. "Whatever game your mother put you up to last night stops right now. You work for me. Everything you and your brothers wear, drive, and eat came from the blood I spilled in this city before you were out of diapers!"

Julian didn't flinch. At thirty, he was two inches taller than his father, broader in the shoulders, and possessed the icy, unshakeable calm of his mother’s Conti bloodline.

"Every dollar we have came from the port leases and casino charters Grandpa Lorenzo left to Mom in 1994—which you would have lost to the IRS in 2003 if Mom hadn't sat at the kitchen table until four in the morning rewriting your books while you were out drinking with your captains," Julian replied, his voice cutting through the room like surgical steel. "And ten years ago, when you signed the corporate restructuring charter, you agreed to Clause Nine."

Julian flipped the blue binder open to page eighty-four, where Arthur’s bold black signature sat notarized at the bottom, and tossed a glossy 8x10 high-resolution photograph taken by the Palmer House security cameras the night before right on top of it—showing Valerie slapping Evelyn across the face while Arthur stood three feet away doing nothing.

"Three hundred witnesses, Dad," Julian said softly. "And your own admission on audio in front of the head table. As of eight this morning, Mom, Damon, Lucas, and I voted unanimously to invoke Clause Nine. Your forty-nine percent voting stake is suspended. Your corporate accounts are frozen. Your monthly allowance as a non-voting retiree is five thousand dollars—which should just about cover a studio apartment in Cicero."

Valerie jumped up from her chair, her face contorted with shrill fury as she glared at Julian. "You can't do this! Your father promised me this penthouse! And even if you freeze his company cards, I have my own luxury boutique on Oak Street and my Porsche—you can't touch what’s in my name!"

Julian turned his dark eyes slowly toward the twenty-six-year-old woman who had dared strike his mother.

The look on Julian’s face made the real estate broker, Victoria, quietly pick up her notepad and back out of the room without a word.

"Your boutique on Oak Street," Julian repeated softly, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a second, thinner manila folder. "You mean Valerie’s Vault—the designer handbag consignment shop at 114 East Oak?"

"Yes!" Valerie spat, lifting her chin defiantly. "My business has nothing to do with your mother!"

"Funny," Julian murmured, flipping open the folder. "Because Dad leased that retail storefront for you eight months ago through one of our secondary commercial real estate shells—Lakeshore Retail Properties, LLC. Who do you think owns Lakeshore Retail Properties, Valerie? I do. And since your shop hasn't actually paid a single dollar of rent in eight months because Dad was waiving it off the books, you are currently two hundred and forty thousand dollars in commercial arrears."

Valerie’s face lost half its color. "Arthur waived the rent—!"

"Arthur had no legal authority to waive rent on a building owned by my trust," Julian interrupted coldly. "Which is why at nine o’clock this morning, the Cook County Sheriff’s commercial eviction unit and my repo team showed up at 114 East Oak Street, padlocked the doors, and seized every Birkin bag, jewelry display, and register inside as collateral against the unpaid back rent."

"My inventory?!" Valerie shrieked, grabbing at her hair as panic finally hit her squarely in the chest. "Half of those bags were on consignment from Gold Coast wives—and the rest belong to Viktor Kael’s girlfriend! If you take those bags, they’ll sue me! They’ll kill me!"

"Better take the bus over to Oak Street and explain that to them, then," Julian said, checking his watch. "Why the bus? Because the white Porsche 911 you parked in the loading zone downstairs is registered under Sterling Fleet Leasing—and my tow truck driver just hooked it up two minutes ago."

Valerie spun around to the tenth-floor window overlooking Rush Street just in time to see a flatbed tow truck pulling away into the snow with her white Porsche 911 chained to the bed!

"Arthur! Do something!" Valerie screamed, turning on Arthur and clawing at his tuxedo lapel. "Call your soldiers! Shoot him! Make him give me my shop and my car back!"

Arthur stood frozen beside the table. His personal bank account—the only non-trust checking account he held solely in his own name—had less than forty thousand dollars in it because for twenty years he had lived like an emperor off the unlimited corporate black cards Julian managed.

"Get your hands off my coat, Valerie," Arthur snapped, shoving her wrists away as the reality of what Julian had just done sank in. He looked straight at his eldest son, his gray eyes narrowing into lethal slits. "You think paper and lawyers run the streets of Chicago, Julian? I built the syndicate captains at that table. By noon today, I’ll call a sit-down at the Venetian Club, and Damon’s dock bosses and Lucas’s street crews will hand me back every key in this city!"