Page 83 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

Three Days Earlier

A few hours ago, I walked into Isabella's apartment on the Upper East Side.

I tossed the test results onto her coffee table. The pages slid over the glass and stopped right by her hand.

"Tell me. Whose kid is it?"

Isabella's face blanched for a beat. Then she straightened her spine. "I don't know what you mean."

"I gave you one chance to tell the truth."

Her eyes flicked to the date in the lower right corner. "The report is real. I am pregnant. Yours."

I hadn't given a damn about digging through an ex's sex life.

But she had tried to shove some mystery pregnancy into my marriage and drive my wife out. If she wanted that war, I would've ripped up every secret she'd tried to bury.

There wasn't just one report on the table. Clinic intake records. Hotel charges from her month in Europe. The date she'd given the doctor when she booked the appointment. Screenshots from the hallway security cameras. All of it.

"The clinic estimated conception at about two weeks before you flew back," I said, sliding the first photo toward her. "1:16 a.m. A blond guy walked out of the elevator with you and went into your room."

Second photo—another man. Third—only a profile, the ID results tucked beneath it.

Then more. Different nights. Different men. Same hallway. Same door.

I didn't need to see what happened inside. The way her fingers clenched the edge of the table told me enough. Her perfect manicure went bloodless, but she still held on to that polished, trained calm.

"That was socializing."

"Your 'socializing' needed them in your room after midnight?"

"I was drunk."

"Every time?"

She shut her mouth.

Anger burned up like hot metal, climbing from my gut into my chest. Not because of betrayal. We'd been over a long time ago. Because even now, she still believed if she wore that fragile little face, I'd explain everything away for her.

I used to.

Photos could be misunderstood. Kisses could be accidents. Lies could be forgiven if they came from fear. Every time Elena tried to tell me the truth, I worried first about whether Isabella would get hurt.

I'd made excuses for Isabella so many times she started thinking my trust didn't have a bottom. And Elena finally stopped waiting.

"You were the one who forged the divorce papers."

Isabella's breath hitched. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I opened another file.

The first draft had been created on her assistant's computer. My signature had been lifted from a foundation authorization form from six months ago—cropped, cleaned, then pasted into the signature line. The audio had been stitched from six separate conversations. The background noise came from three different rooms. The send trail looped through two layers, and the final account used had been paid by her assistant—on a card tied to the Rossi family.

It wasn't sloppy.

But she'd forgotten how I'd stayed alive in New York's underworld.

"I just loved you too much," she said, eyes rimmed red. "I was the one who was supposed to marry you. If Elena hadn't set me up and pushed me away, I'd be the one standing next to you. I only took back what was mine. Was that really wrong?"