My Husband Framed Me For Cartel Crimes To Fund His Mistress — So My Billionaire Father Destroyed His Empire

Part 2

The slit-opened eyes at the speakeasy entrance assessed my wet trench coat before the heavy bolt finally slid back.

The interior was suffocatingly warm, smelling intensely of cedar smoke and expensive, nervous sweat.

At the far end of the dim room, inside a circular leather booth, sat Dan.

He looked completely wrecked.

His silk tie was undone, and the hair he usually lacquered into perfect submission fell wildly over his sweaty forehead.

Sitting opposite him was a man I didn’t know, a cartel contact eating a steak with precise, terrifying movements.

I approached the booth, making sure my heels clicked loudly on the polished concrete to announce my arrival.

Dan looked up, his bloodshot eyes widening first in genuine shock, then quickly morphing into dark suspicion.

He demanded to know what I was doing there, slurring his words slightly from the expensive scotch.

I kept my voice trembling and incredibly small, clutching my purse with white knuckles to play the part of the terrified wife perfectly.

I cried out that I had seen the breaking news and knew my father was going to destroy us both.

Dan let out a bitter, ugly laugh, sneering that my father had made it very clear there was no “us” anymore.

The dangerous man in the beige suit stopped cutting his meat, his shark-like eyes locking coldly onto my face.

Dan barked at me to get out immediately, aggressively claiming they were discussing important business.

I raised my voice just enough to sound thoroughly desperate, begging him to listen to reason.

I lied straight to his arrogant face, sobbing that my father suspected I was the one who stole the charity money.

The air in the booth instantly dropped ten degrees as the cartel contact slowly placed his sharp knife down.

Dan stood up rapidly, grabbing my arm hard enough to leave deep purple bruises on my skin.

He hissed maliciously into my ear to shut my mouth before he made me.

I leaned into the abuse, pretending to sob uncontrollably about losing the penthouse and the lifestyle if he went to federal prison.

I pleaded with him to sign a simple note claiming the transfers were a personal loan, promising I would use it to stop the hostile takeover.

Dan, desperate for any lifeline and arrogant enough to believe I was still weak, frantically grabbed a cocktail napkin.

The quiet contact silently slid a heavy gold fountain pen across the wooden table.

I watched the dark ink flow as Dan rapidly wrote out a full confession, explicitly acknowledging responsibility for moving the foundation funds.

Tyler’s voice buzzed quietly in my hidden earpiece, firmly confirming they had the visual and the audio.

Dan aggressively shoved the napkin at me, his eyes filled with false, pathetic bravado.

I took the paper, my hands shaking not from fear, but from the electric thrill of total victory.

I quietly thanked him and turned to leave the nightmare behind forever.

A cold, heavily accented voice commanded me to wait.

The contact stood up, moving with the fluid lethality of a true predator, and stepped directly into my path.

He complimented my vintage Cartier necklace, noting softly that they didn’t use lithium-ion batteries in the 1920s.

He violently yanked the diamonds from my throat, exposing the blinking red light of the hidden transmitter to the dim room.

Dan’s face twisted into absolute, murderous rage as he finally realized the devastating trap.

He lunged for me across the table, his grasping hands reaching for my neck.

I didn’t scream; I simply swung my heavy clutch bag with all my gathered strength, catching him square in the nose with a sickening crunch.

The contact shouted for the armed bouncer as he pulled a suppressed pistol from his waistband.

As the lights suddenly cut out and the heavy steel door was blown off its hinges, I hit the floor—would my father’s team reach me before Dan’s men made sure I never spoke again?