Franklin Roosevelt stared at the papers on his desk.
It had been less than three months since Bern. Less than three months since he'd walked away from that table certain he'd played a winning hand.
Now the hand lay in front of him, nothing but aces and eights.
Every name his departments had investigated, arrested, even executed on charges of treason and espionage… innocent.
The "evidence" that brought them down? Forged from the start.
He couldn't admit it. Not to Congress, not to the press, not even to his own cabinet.
It would destroy him. His party. His country.
Bruno had taken the trap meant for him and turned it inside out, using Roosevelt's own hand to sweep away the last men who could block his quiet takeover of America's industry, infrastructure, and levers of political power.
Roosevelt knew it. He could even guess at the shell companies and offshore fronts that now held what used to be American assets. But proof? That was the part that killed him. There was none.
