But the worst deal I ever made was trusting my family.

The rain was hammering against the roof of the taxi as we pulled up the long gravel driveway of the estate in The Hamptons. My chest still burned with a dull, throbbing ache, a reminder of the triple bypass surgery I had undergone secretly in a private clinic in Zurich six months ago. I had told no one about the severity of my condition—not my wife, Beatatrice, not my daughter, Emily, and certainly not Braden, my son-in-law. I wanted to protect them from worry. I wanted to handle it alone, like I handled everything in my life.