“My father was a dockworker,” she said. “I know how your people operate. I wanted to see it end.”

“And now it has,” I said.

“The vehicle is waiting downstairs,” she said, gesturing toward the elevator.

I took my wool coat from the rack by the door, shook off the dust, and slipped it over my shoulders.

We rode the elevator down in silence, the numbers ticking away the legacy I had spent forty years building.

The lobby was filled with federal agents in blue jackets, their boots muddying the polished marble floors.

Outside, the air was cold and smelled of salt and wet asphalt.

A black suburban sat idling at the curb, its exhaust rising in white plumes into the rain.

Elena opened the rear door for me.

I climbed inside, the leather seats smelling of vinyl and cheap air freshener.

Marcus was sitting in the corner, his face bruised and his hands shaking in his lap.

He did not look at me when the door closed.

“You are alive,” I said.

“They were going to kill me, Uncle,” he whispered, his voice cracking.