“We aren’t going to the office,” Grace told the driver. “Take us to the Whitmore townhouse on 74th Street.”

“Why are we going there?” I asked.

“Because Margaret Whitmore is the only person who can stop him without a shootout,” Grace said. “And she is about to realize that her empire is crumbling.”

As the car pulled into the traffic, my phone lit up with an incoming call from Adrian’s personal number.

I stared at the screen as it vibrated in my palm.

Adrian’s name flashed in white letters against the dark background.

“Do not answer it,” Grace said, her hand reaching out to touch my wrist.

Her leather glove was cold and damp from the rain.

“If I don’t, he’ll think I’m hiding,” I said.

“You are hiding, Vivian,” she replied.

“But we are going to his mother’s house,” I said. “He needs to know I am not afraid of him.”

I swiped the screen and pressed the phone to my ear.

The sound of heavy, ragged breathing filled the line before he even spoke.

“Vivian,” Adrian said, his voice sharp and laced with static. “Where is my daughter?”