Tristan groaned, his face pressed flat against the cold marble tiles.

“Are you harmed, Kate?” Arthur asked, turning to look at me.

“I am fine,” I said, though my breath came in short, shallow gasps.

“Good,” Arthur said, taking a sip of his champagne.

The heavy doors at the far end of the mezzanine opened again.

This time, three men in dark suits entered, followed by uniformed NYPD officers.

The man in the lead wore a federal badge clipped to his belt.

“Federal agents,” the lead man announced. “Nobody move.”

He looked at Victor, then down at Tristan.

“We have warrants for the arrest of Tristan Carmichael,” the agent said.

“He is all yours, Agent Vance,” Arthur said, gesturing with his glass.

Victor released Tristan, stepping back to stand at Arthur’s side.

Two officers grabbed Tristan by his arms and hauled him to his feet.

His face was smudged with dust, and a thin line of blood ran from his nose.

“You are under arrest for securities fraud, grand larceny, and wire fraud,” Agent Vance said.

“This is a mistake,” Tristan gasped, spit flying from his lips.