“What is the meaning of this, Nathaniel?” the older man asked.

His voice was powerful, echoing through the dark lobby.

It was Charles Graves.

Nathaniel’s father.

My fingers tightened around Ruby’s small, warm hand.

I pulled her closer to my side, stepping back into the shadow of a concrete pillar.

Charles Graves stood in the center of the lobby, the damp night air clinging to his wool coat.

His eyes swept over the papers on the floor, then over Arthur Dunleavy, and finally settled on his son.

Nathaniel did not flinch under his father’s gaze.

“It is exactly what it looks like, Father,” Nathaniel said.

“This man has been robbing our tenants for over a decade.”

Charles tapped his silver-tipped cane once against the marble.

The sound was sharp, like a pistol shot in the quiet room.

“We do not settle family business in front of the police, Nathaniel,” Charles said, his voice dropping to a low growl.

“The reputation of this firm is already fragile.”

“This isn’t just family business,” Nathaniel replied.

He gestured toward the wet street outside, where the red and blue lights continued to paint the glass walls.