My husband shoved me, shattering the bathroom mirror. His mother sneered, “Clean up this disgusting mess.” But as I fell, my husband roared, “What’s in your pocket?!” The red LED of my federal distress fob pulsed. Denied the third click, I threw myself onto the broken glass, and…

was secured. I walked down the grand staircase wrapped in a tactical jacket Marcus had draped over me. The foyer was a scene of absolute devastation. The mahogany door was splintered firewood.

Arthur Sterling was pinned face-down on the imported Persian rug, his hands cuffed behind his massive back, raging impotently at the agents holding him down. continue reading …