He turned and ran down the hallway.

A few seconds later, the lights flickered and surged back to life.

The bright overhead chandelier illuminated the blood pooling on the hardwood floor.

Damiano turned to me and slid his gun back into his holster.

His expression was perfectly calm, as if he had just signed a routine contract.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“But they were right about Marcus.”

“He will keep squeezing your business until you have nothing left.”

Damiano walked over to his desk and sat down.

“Marcus is powerful, but he is not immortal,” Damiano said.

“You mentioned his money.”

“Yes,” I said, stepping over the edge of the bloodstain to get closer to the desk.

“Marcus has three primary shell companies.”

“They are registered under his mother’s maiden name.”

“He uses them to funnel cash to the city inspectors and the port authority.”

“If you cut off those payments, his political protection disappears.”

Damiano looked at me, a faint glimmer of interest in his dark eyes.

“Do you know the account numbers?” he asked.