“They are downstairs,” Luca said, his voice barely a whisper.

Marcus did not answer his brother.

He walked past me, his shoulder brushing mine, leaving the scent of cold wind and expensive tobacco in his wake.

He stopped at the desk and looked down at the closed laptop.

“Where is Sophia?” Marcus asked.

“Vance’s men have her in the foyer,” I said.

The sound of tires crunching on the frozen gravel outside rose through the floorboards.

Red and blue lights began to paint the frosted glass of the office windows, turning the white snow outside into a pulsing violet.

“The federal marshals,” Vance said, checking his watch. “Right on time.”

Marcus did not look surprised.

He sat down in the leather chair behind his desk, the chair that had belonged to his father.

“Let them up,” Marcus said.

Vance nodded to one of his men, who quickly left the room.

We stood in silence, the flashing lights casting long, rhythmic shadows across the mahogany walls.

The elevator bell rang again.

This time, the footsteps that followed were heavy, synchronized, and numerous.