“One press,” I said, “and the entire package is delivered to the personal email of the lead prosecutor at the federal courthouse downtown.”

“You’d go to prison too,” he said, his voice desperate.

“My name isn’t on any of those accounts,” I said. “I was just a secretary, remember? You made sure of that.”

A loud crack echoed through the house as the door frame finally gave way.

The front door swung open, banging loudly against the interior wall.

The wet, cold night air rushed into the kitchen, carrying the scent of pine and exhaust fumes.

Julian Maroni stepped into the hallway.

He was wearing a dark, expensive wool overcoat, completely unbothered by the rain that clung to his shoulders.

Two of his men stood behind him in the shadows, their hands buried in their pockets.

Julian looked at the splintered wood of the door frame, then walked slowly into the kitchen.

“Arthur,” Julian said, a cold smile touching his lips. “I thought I recognized your car in the lane.”

Arthur did not lower his gun. He kept it pointed at Julian’s chest.