Blood was drying on my cuff when I returned home at 1:43 a.m., but the worst violence waiting for me wasn’t at the docks. Before I could turn on the lights, my housekeeper stepped from the darkness and whispered, “Don’t make a sound,” then showed me why my fiancée had been terrorizing my children for eleven weeks, and why losing my temper was exactly what she needed.

Before Patrick could kill Arthur with his bare hands, the heavy double doors of the ballroom crashed open.

Inspector Vance of the Federal Organized Crime Task Force marched into the room, flanked by twenty heavily armed FBI tactical officers and Chicago Police detectives.

"FBI! Nobody move!" Vance shouted, his weapon drawn.

The room fell into dead silence as tactical officers flooded the stage, securing the area. Two agents immediately pinned Arthur Velez to the floor, pulling his arms behind his back and snapping steel handcuffs onto his wrists.

Inspector Vance stepped up onto the stage, looking down at Arthur, then at Camille, who was weeping uncontrollably in a puddle of her own silk dress and blood.

"Arthur Velez," Vance announced loudly. "You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, attempted poisoning, corporate fraud, and child endangerment."

An agent pulled Camille to her feet, slapping handcuffs around her manicured wrists.

"Camille Sloane," Vance continued, reading her rights. "You are under arrest for felony child abuse, attempted murder, and conspiracy."

Camille looked at her father, sobbing hysterically. "Father! Help me! Please! Call our lawyers!"

Patrick Sloane turned his back on his daughter, refusing to even look at her face. "You are no daughter of mine," Patrick said coldly. "You brought dishonor to our blood. Rot in prison."

As the agents dragged Camille and Arthur down the center aisle of the ballroom, every guest in the room watched in silence. The golden socialite and the polished attorney were exposed as nothing more than cowardly monsters.