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

He picked up his water

He picked up his water.

“Yet.”

I stared at the recording waveform on the screen.

My handler had just confessed to federal corruption.

And now I had something Arthur didn’t know existed.

Evidence.

PART 3 — Hotel camera footage proves Arthur arranged the assassination attempt.

Mateo gave me the guest room.

That mattered.

He also left two armed guards outside the hallway.

That mattered too.

Nobody was pretending this arrangement was normal.

At 2:17 a.m., I sat cross-legged on the bed wearing an oversized Columbia University sweatshirt someone had found in a closet and hacked into the Bellmont surveillance cloud through credentials I had copied weeks earlier.

Mateo stood behind me.

Too close.

“Personal space,” I said.

“You’re using my laptop.”

“That isn’t how personal space works.”

The hotel server opened.

Camera 14.

West ballroom.

7:58 p.m.

I scrubbed backward.

Arthur appeared near the service entrance.

He checked his watch.

One attacker entered.

Arthur touched his left cuff twice.

Signal.

Then the footage showed the Glock falling.

Arthur looked around.

And kicked it directly toward the gunman.

Mateo stopped joking.

His face became empty.

I almost preferred the arrogance.

“Download it,” he said.

“Already did.”

“To what?”

“Three places.”

“Where?”

I looked up.

“Nice try.”

For the first time that night, he gave me a genuine smile.

“Agent Sinclair.”

“Crime Boss Visconti.”

“Fiancée.”

I pointed at him.

“Keep pushing.”

His smile disappeared when another figure entered the camera frame.

Captain H.

The same NYPD captain from the ballroom.

He walked through the service corridor four minutes before the attack.

Arthur met him.

They shook hands.

H accepted an envelope.

Mateo’s jaw tightened.

“There’s your compromised police.”

I enlarged the frame.

The envelope had a bank logo printed on one corner.

First Hudson Private Bank.

I knew that bank.

Three shell companies in my investigation used it.

“Arthur isn’t just paying cops,” I said.

“He’s moving the stolen money through New York before sending it offshore.”

Mateo looked at me.

“How much?”

“Forty million that I can prove.”

“Can you trace it?”

I closed the laptop.

“Yes.”

“But?”

“I need my Bureau access.”

“Which Kesler controls.”

“Exactly.”

Mateo walked toward the window.

Below us, a sanitation truck groaned down Franklin Street.

Manhattan kept moving like nothing had happened.

Then Mateo’s phone buzzed.

He read the message.

His expression hardened.

“Arthur called a commission meeting tomorrow night.”

“To remove you?”

“To bury me.”

I opened the laptop again.

“Then we don’t stop him.”

Mateo turned.

“We let him call the meeting.”

He stared at me.

I smiled.

“And we bring forty million reasons nobody should believe him.”

PART 4 — Arthur calls me a traitor until his stolen millions appear.

The meeting took place in a private dining room beneath an ultra-exclusive Midtown hotel.

No windows.

One door.

Too many armed men.

Very comforting.

Mateo walked in with his hand lightly at my lower back.

I wore a dark red evening dress his stylist had delivered that afternoon.

It was expensive enough to pay my rent for six months.

I hated that I liked it.

Arthur stood at the head of the table.

Five older men sat around him.

Nobody smiled.

“There she is,” Arthur said.

“The federal rat.”

Mateo pulled out my chair.

“She has a name.”

“I know her name.”

Arthur looked directly at me.

“Special Agent Genevieve Sinclair.”

Murmurs moved around the table.

Mateo didn’t react.

Arthur grinned.

“You brought law enforcement into our house. You’ve gone soft.”

“No,” Mateo said.

“I brought an accountant.”

I almost laughed.

Arthur didn’t.

I placed my clutch on the table.

“You’ve been stealing from these men for thirty-six months.”

His face changed.

Just slightly.

Enough.

“Forty million dollars,” I continued.

“You routed it through three New York LLCs, First Hudson Private Bank, then Butterfield accounts in Cayman.”

Arthur scoffed.

“Fabricated.”

I removed a flash drive.

“So verify it.”

Enzo connected it to the room’s display.

The wall screens lit up.

Transfers.

Dates.

Account numbers.

Shell companies.

Arthur’s name hidden behind layers of ownership that suddenly didn’t look very hidden.

One of the commission members made a phone call.

Thirty seconds later, he put the phone down.

“The balances are real.”

Arthur went pale.

Then angry.

“Visconti planted it!”

I clicked another file.

Hotel surveillance footage appeared.

Arthur.

The attackers.

The gun.

Captain H.

The envelope.

Nobody spoke.

Arthur reached inside his jacket.

Every weapon in the room came up.

Including mine.

I had taken a compact pistol from Mateo’s security safe before we left.

He had objected.