Two of Roman’s men moved around the flanks, their weapons pointed directly at Elias’s chest.

Elias slowly raised his hands, stepping away from the locked office door behind him.

Viktor stepped in, grabbed Elias’s gun from his holster, and kicked his legs out from under him.

Elias hit the marble floor hard, his hands bound behind his back with plastic zip-ties before he could speak again.

“Where is he?” Roman asked, standing over him.

Elias nodded toward the heavy wooden door of the private wealth office.

“He’s inside,” Elias whispered. “He’s completing the wire transfer now.”

Roman walked to the door and turned the handle.

It was locked.

Without a word, Roman stepped back and kicked the lock.

The wood splintered, and the door flew inward, slamming against the interior wall.

Inside, the office was lined with dark walnut bookshelves and green leather chairs.

Sitting behind a massive mahogany desk was my father, Arthur Whitmore.

He was wearing his wool overcoat, a leather briefcase open on the desk in front of him.

A laptop screen glowed blue against his face, showing a progress bar for a bank transfer.