My Boss, My Babydaddy

Chapter 51

Jocelyn’s POV

The wire itches.

Not physically—Agent Chen assured me the recording device is undetectable, woven into the delicate gold chain I'm wearing like jewelry instead of evidence. But psychologically, it burns against my skin like a brand.

"Stop touching your neck." Zayden's voice is low, tense. "You'll draw attention."

We're in the back of a black SUV three blocks from the Brooklyn Commerce Building.

Six AM pickup turned into twelve hours of preparation—technical briefings, rehearsed conversations, scenarios where everything goes wrong mapped out with the clinical precision of people who've done this before.

"How's yours?" I ask.

He adjusts his cufflink for the third time. "Invisible, built into the watch mechanism. Chen said even metal detectors won't flag it."

"And if Dante searches you anyway?"

"Then we're fucked." He meets my eyes. "But the FBI will be monitoring, thirty seconds from breach to extraction."

Thirty seconds. A lot can happen in thirty seconds when someone's holding a gun.

Agent Torres leans forward from the front seat. "Final check. Mrs. Wolfe, your necklace is transmitting clearly. Mr. Wolfe, your watch is active. Remember—natural conversations only. Let Dante incriminate himself, don't push."

"What if he doesn't talk about the money?" I ask.

"He will." Chen's voice crackles through Torres's earpiece. "Fifty million in laundered funds. He'll want confirmation, explicit instructions. That's when we get him."

The Commerce Building looms ahead—all glass and steel, hosting what Dante calls a "networking gala." Translation: legitimate business cover for criminal transactions.

"Kids are secure?" Zayden asks for the fifth time.

"Safe house, twenty miles out, armed protection." Torres hands us final instructions. "You have panic buttons—his in the watch, yours in your bracelet clasp. Press them and we come in loud. Otherwise, we wait for clean audio."

I look at my bracelet. Delicate silver, purchased yesterday, hiding a button that could save our lives or get us killed if Dante's men notice us reaching for it.

"Time to go," Torres says. "Remember—you're a married couple attending your husband's business event. Confident, calm, not two people wearing federal wires."

We exit the SUV separately. Zayden first, then me thirty seconds later. Meeting at the building entrance like we arrived in different cars.

His hand finds mine as we walk through doors flanked by men in suits that scream security.

"Confident," he murmurs.

"And terrified," I correct.

"That too."

The gala is elegant brutality.

Champagne flows from crystal fountains. String quartet plays Vivaldi like we're at the Met instead of a money laundering front. Men in thousand-dollar suits discuss market trends while their wives compare jewelry that costs more than most people's houses.

And somewhere in this beautiful, deadly crowd, Dante Caruso is waiting.

"There." Zayden's grip tightens on my hand.

Dante stands near the bar, surrounded by associates who look like they bench-press federal witnesses. He's laughing at something, completely relaxed, king surveying his domain.

When he sees us, his smile widens.

"Zayden! Mrs. Wolfe!" He approaches with open arms like we're old friends. "So glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it." Zayden's voice is steady. "Fifty million in real estate opportunities. Quite the portfolio."

Dante's smile doesn't waver, but something behind his eyes sharpens. "Walk with me." A command wrapped in hospitality.

He leads us through the crowd, one hand on Zayden's shoulder in a gesture that looks friendly from a distance and feels like a leash up close.

A back office. Door closes. The music from the gala becomes a muffled heartbeat through the walls.

Two men flank the room—jackets tailored to hide shoulder holsters, hands clasped at their waists in a posture that says they've done this before.

My wire presses against my collarbone, recording everything.

Dante settles behind the desk like a man returning to his throne. He doesn't offer us seats. Lets the silence do its work for ten full seconds before sliding a folder across the surface.

"Your father and I had an understanding. Twenty years of mutual benefit—his buildings, my infrastructure, everyone prospered."

Dante opens the folder himself, turns it to face Zayden. "Brooklyn properties. Shell corporations already established. Clean money in, cleaner money out. All that's missing is a Wolfe signature."

Zayden doesn't touch the folder. "My father made his own deals. I didn't sign up for his legacy."

"You inherited it."

Dante's voice loses its warmth.

"Every building, every account, every dollar that your name is printed on—that's not legacy, that's debt. I can't walk away from what was promised just because the man who promised it stopped breathing. You're his blood. You're the only person who can honor what he started."

"What he started was criminal."

"What he started was a partnership." Dante leans forward, fingers laced. "And partnerships don't dissolve because one party dies. They transfer. Sign the papers, Zayden. Or we revisit our conversation about your children's safety."

Zayden reaches for a pen. Then one of Dante's men steps forward. "Boss, protocol."

Dante nods. "Of course. Can't be too careful."

Before I understand what's happening, the man pulls out a handheld metal detector and starts scanning Zayden with professional efficiency.

My heart stops.

The detector passes over Zayden's torso. Nothing. His jacket. Nothing. Then his wrist.

The device screams.

"What's this?" The man grabs Zayden's arm, examines the watch with knowing eyes.

Dante's expression goes arctic. "Mr. Wolfe. Care to explain why you're wearing surveillance equipment to a private business meeting?"

"It's just a watch."

"It's a wire." Dante stands slowly. "You're recording me."

The room temperature drops twenty degrees.

Zayden's hand moves toward his watch—the panic button—but Dante's man is faster, grabbing his wrist, twisting until Zayden gasps.

"Don't." Dante's voice is lethal. "FBI, I assume? How disappointing. I thought we had an understanding."

"We do."

"We did." Dante takes the watch, examines it, crushes it under his heel. "Now we have a problem."

I press myself against the wall, trying to blend into expensive wallpaper. My necklace is still broadcasting. The FBI is hearing this. Thirty seconds to extraction.

But Dante's attention shifts to me.

"Mrs. Wolfe, you've been very quiet." He moves closer. "Tell me—did you know your husband was wearing a wire?"

"No." The lie comes out steady.

"Really?" He's studying me now, really looking. "Because you seem remarkably calm for a woman whose husband just committed suicide."

"I'm terrified."

"Then why aren't you running?" His eyes drop to my necklace. "Why are you still standing there like you're waiting for something?"

Shit.

"I don't…"

He moves fast, grabs my necklace and yanks hard enough to break the chain.

The wire dangles from his fingers like a confession.

"You're both wired." His voice goes deadly quiet. "You came into my place of business, wearing federal equipment, trying to entrap me."

"Dante, listen—" Zayden starts.

"I'm done listening." Dante pockets the necklace. "Your wife just recorded me discussing business arrangements. Made me an accessory to whatever federal fantasy you're playing."

He pulls a gun from his jacket, points it at my head.

"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to call your FBI friends, tell them the operation is compromised. Tell them to back off or I put a bullet through your wife's skull and blame it on a robbery gone wrong."

The gun presses cold against my temple.

Zayden's face drains of color. "Don't."

"Call them. Now." Dante's finger rests on the trigger. "Or I paint these nice walls with her brain matter and we see how fast your federal friends can charge me before my lawyers bury them in motions."

I can't breathe, can't think. The gun barrel is ice-cold against my skin, and all I can think about is Mia and Eli growing up without a mother.

"She has nothing to do with this," Zayden says. "Let her go. I'll cooperate. I'll sign whatever you want."

"You'll do exactly what I say because I'm holding all the cards." Dante's voice is conversational. Almost friendly. "Your wife. Your children. Your freedom. All mine to do with as I please."

His phone rings. He answers without lowering the gun.

"Yes?" Pause. "I'm aware. Tell them if they breach this building, Mrs. Wolfe dies immediately."

He hangs up, looks at me with something that might be curiosity.

"The FBI is outside. Tactical teams, negotiators, probably snipers." His smile is terrible. "And you're going to be my insurance policy that they don't do anything stupid."

The gun presses harder against my skull.

"Any last words, Mrs. Wolfe? Before we find out if your husband values your life more than his cooperation with federal agents?"