Before I could answer, the bedroom door gave way with a loud, splintering crash.

Arthur Vance stood in the doorway, his expensive wool coat torn at the shoulder and his face pale with sweat.

He held a heavy steel flashlight in one hand and a small black handgun in the other.

“The party is over, Elena,” Vance said, his chest heaving as he stepped over the broken wood. “We are leaving. All of us.”

“You are not taking them anywhere, Arthur,” I said, stepping between him and the four girls.

“Vanessa is at the gate,” he snarled, pointing the gun loosely toward the floor but keeping his eyes locked on mine. “She has the jet waiting at the regional strip. If I don’t bring the girls, she leaves me behind to take the fall for the offshore transfers.”

Emma let out a quiet sob behind me, her fingers digging into my wool sleeve.

“The forensic audits are already in the hands of the federal prosecutors, Arthur,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “It is over.”

“Not yet,” he said.

He lunged forward, grabbing for Emma’s arm.