The young guard finally met my gaze, his eyes filled with a quiet, hard resolve.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Blackwell,” Elias said. “But your father pays very well.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm.

I looked down at the open page of the ledger.

My eyes scanned the columns, my training as an accountant taking over despite the panic.

I saw the primary routing codes for the Swiss accounts.

*CH93-0485-2201-9941.*

I repeated the digits in my mind.

Below it, the Cayman transit number.

*KY11-9023-4481-0052.*

I memorized the sequences, burning them into my brain.

I realized then that if these pages were gone, the physical book would be useless to any buyer.

And I would no longer be anyone’s collateral.

My fingers brushed against the heavy brass lighter in my skirt pocket—the one I had stolen from Roman’s study.

“Lena,” Arthur said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “The book.”

Before I could answer, Elias’s radio crackled to life with a burst of static.

A panicked voice broke through the speaker.

“Elias, we’ve got a problem in the lobby,” the voice said. “Blackwell’s men just breached the main entrance.”