I stood staring through the floor-to-ceiling armored glass, the sprawling arteries of\u00a0Madrid\u2019s Paseo de la Castellana<\/b>\u00a0glowing like a golden grid beneath my feet. I was twenty-eight years old, seven months pregnant, and trembling so violently my teeth chattered. Yet, my grip on the black leather dossier in my right hand was absolute iron. Inside that folder lay the architectural blueprints of a financial slaughter: irrefutable, meticulously cataloged proof that my husband,\u00a0Alessandro Moretti<\/b>, had been aggressively laundering hundreds of millions for Eastern European syndicates. Worse, he was doing it by parasitizing the international charity foundation I had built from the ground up.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t be aggressively naive, Isabella,\u201d Alessandro\u2019s voice drifted over my shoulder. It was smooth, sanded down by years of corporate sociopathy, and laced with profound boredom. I heard the sharp clink of a crystal tumbler as he swirled his Scotch. \u201cThe globe doesn\u2019t rotate on the axis of morality. It rotates on liquidity.\u201d<\/p>\n
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