One of them was Miller, my old partner from the field office.

He looked at me, then at Romano, and finally at the bleeding young man in the back seat.

“You’re making a big mess, Vargas,” Miller said, his voice flat.

“Just save him,” I said, helping them slide Marcus onto the gurney.

“We’ll patch him up,” Miller said, guiding the gurney toward the double doors. “And we’ll keep him under guard. Nobody enters this wing without my say-so.”

“Thank you, Miller,” I said.

He paused at the door, looking back at us.

“You look like hell, Elena,” he said. “Get some rest before you do whatever it is you’re going to do.”

The doors swung shut, leaving us in the cold, wet air of the bay.

Romano stood beside me, his hands stained dark with his nephew’s blood.

“He will live,” Romano said, though it sounded more like a question.

“Marcus is stubborn,” I said. “He’ll survive.”

Romano walked to the edge of the awning, looking out at the distant city skyline.

Through the rain, the corporate headquarters of his former empire loomed like a black monolith.