My Husband Sold Me To The Mafia King Who Turned Out To Be My Daddy Chapter 10
Three months later.
Manhattan’s business world gets shaken to its foundation.
I take over as CEO of Whitmore Holdings. Officially. And I don’t come in soft.
Day one, I call the board. Every uncle, every old-guard member sitting there in their thousand-dollar suits.
And I gut the company’s entire underworld side. Right in front of them.
Casinos , shut down. Underground auctions — dissolved. Every dirty club — padlocked.
A few of the old bulls who came up with my dad slam their fists on the table. Yell that I’m cutting the Whitmore roots out from under us.
I don’t waste breath.
I have my men throw the files down in front of them. Embezzlement. Money laundering. Selling us out to rivals.
Then I call the cops myself. Watch them get walked out in cuffs.
Ruthless. Clean. Done.
The whole company figures it out real fast — this new heiress didn’t just inherit her dad’s teeth. She’s sharper. Colder. Smarter than the old man.
But she’s fair too. Anyone who does the work? Salary doubled. On the spot.
Three months. That’s all it takes.
Whitmore Holdings is a different company. Books clean. Reputation reset. We’re pivoting into clean energy. Tech investments. Real business.
Market cap doubles.
My dad? Fully retired. Every day he’s at the estate, watering his roses, feeding the birds, telling anyone who’ll listen about his brilliant daughter.
The morning of the anniversary. Light rain.
I pull on a long black coat. A bouquet of white chrysanthemums in my arms.
I take my dad to my mom’s grave.
He can’t make it all the way up. He stops. Reaches out. Touches her photo on the headstone. His eyes flood red.
“Honey. I’m so sorry. I came to see you.”
“Our girl. She grew up. She’s better than me. Stronger than me.”
“I found her. Baby. Did you see? I found her.”
He talks and cries. Talks and cries. Seven years of missing her. Seven years of regret. Everything pouring out at once.
I stand next to him. Quiet. Looking at my mother’s soft smile in the picture.
After a while, I crouch down. Lay the flowers at the base of the stone.
I reach up. Touch my dad’s shoulder. It’s shaking.
I speak softly.
“Mom. I don’t hate Dad anymore.”
“It’s all in the past now.”
“Wherever you are — please forgive him too.”
“Me and Dad — we’re gonna live. Really live. From here on.”
He goes rigid. Turns to look at me. Tears streaming. He nods, over and over. He can’t get a word out.
The rain washes over the headstone. And it feels like it’s washing seven years of pain right off my chest.
Evening. The rain stops.
I go back to the tower. Alone.
I push open the doors to the top-floor office. Walk to the wall of windows.
Down below — Manhattan. Lit up like an ocean of stars.
Traffic. Neon. The whole city stretched out at my feet.
I pour a glass of red wine. Swirl it slow.
I don’t regret any of it.
Because without that betrayal — without every second of that pain — I never would’ve grown claws. I’d still be that soft little girl who ran from everything.
What doesn’t kill me makes me sharper.
I smile. Small. Quiet.
And I say it out loud, to the whole skyline. My voice steady.
“From today on — I, Cora Whitmore, live for no one but myself.”