The night I brought my pregnant mistress into our Manhattan mansion

The Gulfstream touched down on a private, rain-slicked runway just outside of Geneva as the early morning fog rolled across the Swiss landscape.

I hadn't slept a single minute.

Victor had sat across from me the entire flight, his eyes locked on my chest, his hand never leaving the grip of his weapon.

Eleanor was asleep in the back cabin, her face looking terrifyingly innocent for a woman who had just orchestrated the downfall of the East Coast's most violent syndicate.

As the jet taxied toward a heavily guarded hangar, I realized the full scope of my isolation.

My offshore accounts were frozen or drained. My loyalists in New York were either dead, arrested, or working for Arthur Vance.

"End of the line, Don Moretti," Victor said, gesturing for me to stand as the plane finally came to a halt.

Eleanor emerged from the back, wrapping her thick wool coat tightly around her pregnant belly. She didn't look at me. She didn't have to.

The cabin door opened, and a blast of freezing Alpine air rushed inside.

We walked down the boarding stairs onto the wet tarmac.

Waiting for us were three black SUVs, engines idling, flanked by half a dozen men wearing tactical gear and federal windbreakers.

Standing at the front of the convoy was a tall, sharp-featured man in a tailored charcoal suit.

He flashed a gold badge as Eleanor approached him.

"Special Agent Thomas Vance," the man introduced himself, offering Eleanor a polite smile. "You executed the extraction perfectly, Mrs. Moretti."

I froze on the tarmac.

The name hit me like a physical blow, but it was his face that made my blood run cold.

The sharp jawline. The cold, calculating eyes.

He looked exactly like his brother.

"Vance?" I repeated aloud, staring at the FBI agent.

Eleanor looked back at me, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Yes, Agent Vance has been my handler for the past three years. He orchestrated the immunity deal."

I looked at Victor, whose hand had instinctively drifted toward his sidearm.

"Eleanor," I whispered, my voice laced with absolute terror. "Arthur Vance's middle name is Thomas."

Eleanor stared at me, the color rapidly draining from her face.

She turned back to the agent in the charcoal suit.

"Your name is Thomas Vance?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

The agent's polite smile vanished, replaced by a cold, familiar smirk.

"Actually, it's just Arthur," the man said, stepping forward. "My brother Thomas died of a heroin overdose ten years ago. A product imported by your husband's cartel friends."

The realization crashed down on us all at once.

Eleanor hadn't been communicating with the FBI for the past three years.

She had been communicating with Arthur Vance, my chief financial officer, who had stolen his dead brother's identity and fabricated a flawless federal persona.

Arthur had used Eleanor to dismantle my empire from the inside, letting her believe she was working for the Justice Department, when in reality, she was just clearing the board for his ultimate takeover.

"The immunity deal," Eleanor choked out, dropping her leather bag onto the wet tarmac.

"Completely forged," Arthur said with a mocking bow.