The night my billionaire mafia husband kissed his mistress under the chandeliers at a party—and forgot who built his empire... Then I, his pregnant wife, snatched the microphone!

The arrest happened at nine o'clock on Friday morning, under the dazzling autumn sun outside the federal courthouse in Lower Manhattan.

Dominic had tried to walk through the side entrance with his remaining defense attorney, but a fleet of news vans and twenty federal marshals were already waiting.

The flashbulbs exploded in a violent, blinding frenzy—matching the exact white light that had shattered his life at the St. Aurelia two nights before.

“Mr. Moretti! Is it true you’ve been indicted on thirty counts of racketeering?!”

“Dominic! Did your wife hand the ledgers to the DA?!”

“Where is Ava Moretti?!”

Dominic said nothing. He kept his head down as the steel handcuffs clicked around his wrists, locking his hands behind his back. As he was led toward the back of the dark blue government van, he looked up across the crowded plaza.

Standing on the top step of the courthouse, framed by the massive marble pillars, was Ava.

She was flanked by Frank Scalise and the lead prosecutor of the Federal Task Force. She wore an elegant camel-hair coat, her hand resting peacefully on her rounded stomach, looking down at him not with anger, not with hatred, but with complete, absolute indifference.

Beside her, Celeste Vane was being escorted into a separate unmarked vehicle—her career in deep cover operations effectively over, her reputation in the department ruined by the political fallout of Ava’s immunity maneuver.

Dominic was pushed into the dark interior of the van. The heavy metal doors slammed shut, cutting off the light, the press, and the city he had once believed he owned.

Across town, in the boardroom of the Rossi Logistics Headquarters overlooking the Hudson River, the capos of the five families were gathering for an extraordinary summit.

There was no chair at the head of the table for Dominic Moretti.

Instead, a comfortable leather armchair had been placed there, complete with a soft velvet cushion for lower back support.

When Ava walked into the room, every man stood up.

Paulie 'The Bull' Varga, who had insulted her three days ago at Il Breccia, was the first to pull out her chair, bowing his head in quiet, terrifying respect.

“Mrs. Rossi,” Paulie said, using her maiden name for the first time in ten years. “The Newark distribution channels have been re-routed. The union bosses have confirmed their loyalty to the Rossi Trust.”

Ava sat down, smoothing her dress over her knees. She looked around the room at the men who held the shadow power of the eastern seaboard—men who had once viewed her as a quiet bride sitting at charity dinners.

“Gentlemen,” Ava said, her voice carrying through the quiet room like a command. “From this day forward, we do not engage in reckless violence. We do not place arrogant fools in leadership positions. We run this city as a business—clean, silent, and protected.”