“Anthony Vargas,” she said, reading him his rights in a flat, practiced monotone.

Tony spat on the rug, his eyes dark with hatred.

“You played me,” he whispered, looking at her.

“I cleaned your office, Tony,” Elena said, putting her badge away. “I saw every slip of paper you left on your desk.”

She turned her gaze to me, her eyes softening just a fraction.

“We need to move,” she said.

“Where is Marcus?” I asked, my chest tightening as I leaned against the back of the heavy leather chair.

“He is downstairs in a secure vehicle,” Elena said. “He is safe.”

“He was stupid,” I said, looking down at the damp carpet. “But he is family.”

“He is young enough to start over,” she said. “You are not.”

I nodded slowly, feeling every one of my sixty-eight years in the joints of my knees.

The room smelled of copper, wet wool, and ozone from the storm outside.

Silvio lowered his gun and looked at me, waiting for my final word.

“Go with them, Silvio,” I said. “Tell the men at the warehouse to drop their weapons.”