The slap came so hard that for one strange second, I thought the crystal chandelier above the dining table had shattered. My head snapped to the side.

Dante leapt from his chair, lunging toward the fireplace, but the dry, ancient paper of the ledger caught the flames instantly. Within seconds, the evidence of Arthur’s dark past was turning to ash.

Dante spun around, his cold eyes blazing with genuine fury.

“Are you insane?” he roared. “I have digital backups! I will burn your entire life to the ground for that!”

“You don’t have backups,” I said, my voice echoing in the quiet room.

Dante froze.

“You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?” I tilted my head, studying the mob boss who suddenly looked very unsure of himself. “Vance ran a full background check on the Moretti syndicate this afternoon. Your father was meticulous. He didn’t trust computers. The only proof of Arthur’s loan was that physical book.”

Dante took a threatening step forward. “You think burning a book stops me? I can have you killed before you reach the lobby.”

“If I die, the dead-man switch on my servers releases the financial records of the shell companies you use to launder money through Thorne Enterprises,” I countered, standing perfectly still. “Julian Thorne gave up a lot of information to the Feds today to reduce his sentence. He gave them Sloane. And he gave me you.”

Dante stopped, the color draining from his sharp face.

“You’re bluffing,” he repeated, but his voice lacked conviction.

“Try me.” I picked up my clutch purse and walked slowly toward the door. “Arthur Whitcomb’s debt is canceled. If you ever contact me, my company, or my family again, I will bury you.”

I opened the heavy doors and walked out into the marble corridor, leaving Dante Moretti standing in the ashes of his leverage.

When I reached my waiting limousine outside the library, Arthur was sitting in the back seat.

“Is it done?” he asked, his voice tight with anxiety.

“The ledger is burned. Moretti has no leverage. The company is safe.”

Arthur closed his eyes, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. “You are truly extraordinary, Claire. You saved this family.”

I looked out the tinted window at the Boston skyline. The city glittered in the winter night. I had defeated my cheating husband, a psychotic corporate spy, a rival billionaire, and a mafia heir. I held the keys to a real estate empire.

But as the limousine pulled away, my cell phone buzzed.

It was an email from an encrypted server. I opened it.

Attached was a single photograph of a DNA paternity test.

It was Sloane Mercer’s test. She wasn't pregnant. But the document proved something else entirely. Something hidden in her genetic profile.

Sloane Mercer’s real name was Sloane Whitcomb.

She was Arthur’s illegitimate daughter.