The Real Boss Was His Neglected Wife

From the back cover

I was putting my signature on the invoice for the Gulfstream G650 when my husband snatched the boarding pass from the folder and handed it to his mistress.

"You're taking the commercial flight out of JFK," Jackson said, daring me to challenge him in front of his security detail. "Amber needs the privacy. She gets air sick."

I looked down at the crumpled ticket he had slid to me. Economy. Middle seat. Three layovers.

Then I looked at the sixty-million-dollar bird I had leased specifically so his crime family wouldn't get slaughtered on the highway by their rivals.

"Amber is fragile," he whispered, his breath smelling of the expensive scotch I bought. "She carries the future. You just carry the checkbook."

My mother-in-law was already on board, sipping the vintage Dom Pérignon I had curated, refusing to look at me.

They treated me like a glorified ATM with a medical degree. They forgot that five years ago, when the Feds froze everything, I was the one who bought their lives with a five-million-dollar tribute.

They forgot that the hand that writes the checks can also close the account.

As the engines roared to life, leaving me stranded on the tarmac, I didn't cry. Surgeons don't cry over dead bodies.

I pulled out my phone and cancelled the Uber he had called for me.

I wasn't going to the airport. I was going to the safe to retrieve the "Blood Contract."

The five million dollars wasn't a gift. It was a callable loan. And the collateral was everything.

I dialed my lawyer. "Burn it to the ground."