---- Chapter 8 Vincent's POV Ilet go. Sophia slumped to the floor, a trickle of blood running from her temple. "Vincent, I can explain..." she sobbed, crawling toward me. "Explain?" I crouched, wiping the blood from her face with my thumb. "Explain this." I pulled out my phone and played the recording. It was from the salon, weeks ago. "Vincent is so good to me, I almost feel guilty," Sophia's voice purred. "And you're still stringing him along?" another woman asked. "He's such an idiot," Sophia's voice, smug and careless. "He still thinks I took a bullet for him. Once ---- this baby is born and Isabella is a bad memory, this whole empire will be mine." The color drained from the real Sophia's face. " That's... that's a fake!" "Fake?" I grabbed her chin, my grip like steel. "My men recorded you at the salon three months ago. Every single word." Terror bloomed in her eyes. "Vincent, we have a child together..." "Marcus's child?" I sneered. "Did you really think I wouldn't find out?" She broke completely, groveling on the floor. "Please, don't kill me! I was wrong! I know I was wrong!" "Kill you?" I laughed, a raw, broken sound. I stood and wiped my hands on my trousers, as if I'd touched something foul. "Death is a gift, Sophia. One you haven't earned." Isabella's memorial service was a somber affair, ---- attended by every major player in the Chicago Outfit. Don Antonio, the old Godfather, sat in the front row. I stood at the podium. "Today, we mourn Isabella Torrino," I said, my voice echoing. "But before we do, there are some truths you all deserve to know." I pressed a remote. A picture of Sophia filled the large screen behind me. "This woman has deceived every single one of us." The screen switched to grainy security footage from the yacht, showing Sophia deliberately shoving Isabella overboard. Acollective, sharp intake of breath swept through the hall. "She used my debt to a savior to manipulate me into destroying the one who actually saved me," I said, my voice cracking with emotion. "Fifteen years ago, in that church... it was Isabella!" I held up the faded photo. "Sophia is an imposter. And ---- she is the one who murdered my wife." The hall was dead silent. "And there's more," I said, playing the next file. Recordings of her colluding with the Castellanos. Evidence of her forged artwork. The DNA report. Each piece of evidence was another nail in her coffin. Don Antonio's face was a mask of thunder. "Bring her in," he commanded. My men dragged Sophia into the hall. She was bruised, her clothes torn. "Kneel," Antonio roared. She collapsed to her knees. "Sophia Martinez," the Godfather's voice was like ice, "you have betrayed this family, framed the wife of a