“Victor, take us to the Chelsea loft.”

“Yes, sir,” Victor replied.

I looked down at my hands.

They were covered in a fine layer of white powder from the side airbags that had partially deployed.

“Who were they?” I asked.

My voice sounded thin, unfamiliar to my own ears.

Arthur did not answer immediately.

He stared out the cracked window, his jaw clenched tight.

“Tristan’s associates,” he said finally.

“He does not have the resources for this,” I said, shaking my head.

“He has Khloe’s money,” Arthur replied.

“And he has made alliances with people who want my territory.”

He closed his eyes for a brief second, his chest rising and falling slowly.

The reality of the situation pressed down on me like a physical weight.

Tristan was trying to kill us.

He was no longer just a white-collar thief who had ruined my life.

He was desperate, and he was willing to use extreme violence to cover his tracks.

The SUV turned down a quiet, cobblestone street in Chelsea.

Victor pressed a remote on the visor, and a heavy metal garage door rolled up.