“He’s a good boy,” he said. “But he’s blinded by rage. He won’t listen to me.”

“He’ll listen to the files on this drive,” I said, patting my pocket. “We have to get to him before Tony’s men do.”

We left the office, slipping out into the darkened corridor.

The air was cold, smelling of ozone and wet carpet.

I led the way, my Glock raised, my eyes scanning the shadows.

We reached the service elevator at the end of the hall.

The metal doors were scratched and dented, reflecting the green glow of the exit sign.

I pressed the button, and the elevator arrived with a heavy clanking sound.

We stepped inside, the air smelling of grease and damp cardboard.

Vincenzo slumped against the metal wall, his hand still pressed to his wounded side.

“You’re losing too much blood,” I said, watching the floor numbers count down.

“I’ve lost more before,” he muttered, though his skin was turning a pale, waxy gray.

The elevator jolted to a stop in the basement garage.

The doors slid open, revealing a vast, dark concrete space.