He thought I was looking at my books or staring out at the Chicago skyline.

But I had watched the reflection of his fingers in the polished brass lamp on his desk.

I had memorized the pattern of his keypads and the sequence of his private security tokens.

I knew how his mind worked, and I knew how he secured his empire.

I stepped closer to the desk, keeping my body between Marcus and the screen.

“You should not be out of bed,” Marcus said, his eyes drifting down to my stomach.

“The doctor said you need rest.”

“I needed some air,” I said.

My left hand remained on the cold steel of the revolver in my pocket.

My right hand rested on the edge of the mahogany desk, inches from the keyboard.

“Luca tells me you were planning to take a drive,” Marcus said.

He stopped three feet from me, smelling of winter air and expensive tobacco.

“He was mistaken,” I said.

I reached out with my right hand and touched the trackpad, waking the screen fully.

The secondary prompt appeared, asking for the eight-digit variable pass.