“You’re Sleeping Beside Me Tonight ”—Then the Mafia Boss Kissed Her Before Everyone…

Twenty minutes later, I was inside an armored Merc…

Twenty minutes later, I was inside an armored Mercedes moving south through wet Manhattan streets.

Rain crawled across the windows.

Mateo sat across from me reading something on an encrypted tablet.

I rubbed my mouth with the back of my hand.

“You assaulted a federal employee.”

He didn’t look up.

“So we’re skipping the catering-company lie?”

Every muscle in my body went still.

Mateo finally raised his eyes.

“Your government training is excellent, Genevieve.”

I reached instinctively toward the inside of my jacket.

Enzo, sitting in front, looked back.

“Bad idea.”

Mateo lifted one hand.

“Relax.”

I laughed once.

“Sure. I’m in an armored car with organized crime. Very relaxing.”

“You’re alive.”

“For now.”

“Because of me.”

“Don’t confuse necessity with gratitude.”

That made him smile.

Then he said something that wiped the sarcasm right out of me.

“I knew you were federal two weeks ago.”

My throat tightened.

“How?”

“You photographed my shipping manifests at the Pierre.”

“You saw me?”

“I saw everything.”

“Then why didn’t you expose me?”

His expression changed.

Because the answer mattered.

“Because somebody has been stealing from my organization.”

Arthur.

I leaned forward.

“You knew?”

“I suspected.”

“I watched him help the shooters tonight.”

Mateo stopped breathing for half a beat.

That was the first real crack I saw in him.

Arthur wasn’t just an employee.

He was family.

And family betrayal cuts differently.

“I saw him kick a gun toward one of them,” I said.

Mateo looked out the rain-streaked window.

Then back at me.

“Can you prove it?”

“Hotel cameras.”

“Arthur controls hotel security.”

“Not the backup.”

His eyes sharpened.

The Bellmont’s surveillance vendor automatically mirrored footage to an off-site server every sixty seconds.

Arthur could destroy the local system.

He could not erase what had already uploaded.

My agency had taught me to notice systems like that.

Maybe my agency would still be useful.

I pulled out my burner phone.

No signal.

Mateo noticed.

“Jammer.”

“You’re blocking federal communications?”

“I’m blocking Arthur from triangulating this vehicle.”

“Convenient distinction.”

The Mercedes turned into a private garage beneath a Tribeca building.

Before the door opened, Mateo leaned toward me.

“The police are compromised. Arthur knows you saw him. Until I identify everyone he owns, you stay where I can protect you.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“No.”

He looked almost amused.

“You take them from your handler.”

My stomach tightened.

“Thomas Kesler, isn’t it?”

That name was classified.

I didn’t blink.

Mateo did not need confirmation.

He already had it.

The elevator doors opened directly into a dark walnut penthouse overlooking the Hudson.

Mateo stepped out.

Then looked back at me.

“You can hate me tomorrow.”

“I can multitask.”

“Good.”

He loosened his bloody cuff.

“Because tonight, Agent Sinclair, we find out which one of us has been betrayed worse.”

And somewhere inside my jacket, my emergency phone suddenly began ringing.

Only one person had that number.

Thomas Kesler.

My handler.

The man who was supposed to save me.

I answered.

By the end of the call, I would understand why Mateo had looked almost sorry for me.

PART 2 — My own FBI handler sold me to Arthur for cash.

“Get away from Visconti.”

Kesler’s voice came through the speaker before I could say hello.

Mateo stood across the penthouse kitchen, opening a bottle of water.

Enzo watched me from beside the refrigerator.

I kept my voice steady.

“Where is extraction?”

Silence.

That was wrong.

Kesler always gave coordinates immediately during an emergency.

“Tom?”

“Leave Mateo’s evidence behind. Walk out alone. Arthur’s people won’t bother you.”

My skin went cold.

“How do you know Arthur’s people are looking for me?”

Another pause.

I put the phone on speaker.

Mateo slowly set down his bottle.

Kesler finally said, “We have sources.”

“No.”

I stared at the phone.

“You have Arthur.”

“Genevieve—”

“How much?”

His tone changed.

The fake concern vanished.

“Don’t make this harder than necessary.”

Enzo muttered something in Italian.

Mateo didn’t move.

“How much did he pay you?” I asked.

Kesler laughed.

“Enough that I don’t have to spend twenty years waiting for a government pension.”

There it was.

Eight months of my life.

Eight months of lying, hiding, eating terrible room-service sandwiches at midnight, memorizing shell corporations, pretending not to notice armed men at charity dinners.

Sold.

For money.

“You gave him my identity.”

“He already suspected you.”

“You gave it to him.”

Kesler sighed.

“Arthur needs Visconti gone. We need his network disrupted. Sometimes interests align.”

“My murder aligns with your interests?”

“You’re being dramatic.”

That sentence did something to me.

Not tears.

Not panic.

Something colder.

I tapped RECORD on Mateo’s tablet.

Kesler kept talking.

He bragged about payments routed through a Delaware consulting company.

He admitted Arthur had police contacts.

He even told me the Bureau would label me rogue if I refused extraction.

He was so certain I was helpless that he handed me the rope himself.

Mateo leaned toward the phone.

“Agent Kesler.”

Kesler stopped.

Mateo’s voice was almost polite.

“You should probably check whether your Cayman account still exists.”

Kesler cursed.

The line died.

I looked at Mateo.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”