BILLIONAIRE'S TREASURED MISTAKE

Twenty years. That's how long I waited to meet the father who abandoned me. And they wouldn't even let me through the goddamn door.

"Miss, you can't come in without an invitation."

The butler sized me up like I was something he'd scraped off his shoe. "This is the Russo Group's 20th-anniversary gala. It's strictly invite-only."

I glanced around the glamorous mansion.

Crystal chandeliers. Champagne towers. Guests in evening gowns clinking glasses.

How ironic.

And my mother's blood money paid for every last cent of it.

"I don't need an invitation." I held up the blood-stained papers. "I'm here to see my mother's husband."

The room went dead silent.

Hundreds of eyes locked onto me. People whispered. Some covered their mouths, sneering.

"Your mother's husband?" A woman dripping in diamonds shrieked with laughter. "Look at this stray cat! Is that a jacket from Goodwill?"

"Where's security? Throw this crazy bitch out!"

"Jesus, any stray dog thinks they can just walk in now."

I ignored the insults. My eyes locked on the man at the head table. Nico Russo.

Twenty years.

He went from a broke nobody to the king of Chicago real estate. Perfect suit, an aura of power. And at his side, his perfect wife and son.

The perfect family. The perfect success story.

All built on my mother's blood and sweat.

"Nico Russo," I said, my voice cutting through the noise. "Twenty years ago, you abandoned your pregnant wife. Did you lose any sleep over it?"

Dead silence.

Even the clinking of glasses stopped.

The man at the head table slowly stood up.

He was tall and imposing. Eyes sharp as a hawk. He had the suffocating presence of a man who owned everything in the room, including the air.

But someone moved faster than him.

"You dare slander my father, you bitch?"

A young man shot up from the table. Blond, blue-eyed, designer suit. Pure rage in his eyes. Matteo Russo. The media's golden boy. In reality? A spoiled little prick.

He pointed a finger in my face and roared, "I'll have you sleeping with the fishes at the bottom of Lake Michigan by sunrise. Try me."

I scoffed. "So that's the Russo way? Play dirty? No wonder it was so easy to dump a pregnant woman and never look back."

Matteo raised his hand to strike me.

"Sir, stop right there." My lawyer, Julian, raised his camera. "I am recording this. If you don't want to hear us out, we can take this straight to court."

"Enough, Matteo."

Nico Russo finally spoke. His voice was deep, steady. The voice of a titan.

"Stand down."

Matteo glared at me, furious, but he backed off.

Nico walked up to me, looking down from his height.

Up close, I could smell his expensive cologne.

Twenty years ago, my mother must have been held in these very arms.

"Miss, I don't know where you heard these rumors." His face was a mask of stone. "But let me be clear. I have no other wife. And I certainly don't have a daughter."

The crushing weight of his power filled the air.

The guests waited eagerly to see this reckless street girl get humiliated.

But I didn't flinch.

I took a step forward and looked right into his eyes.

"Is that so, Nico?"

My voice was soft, but crystal clear.

"Then what about twenty years ago? What about Chiara? Ring a bell?"

The moment the words left my mouth, all the color drained from Nico's face.

He grabbed my shoulders tight. Panic and disbelief flashed in his eyes.

"Where is Chiara?! Where is she?!"