I wondered if the signal was already cutting through the storm, reaching Damiano’s surveillance team.

“Damiano Ricci is not a common criminal,” I said, hoping to keep his attention on me and away from my coat or my pockets.

Marcus laughed, a short, sharp sound that didn’t reach his eyes.

“He is a thug with a polished title,” Marcus said, turning back to face me. “And his time is running out.”

“What did you do?” I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“My associates in the city senate have finally agreed to sign the warrants,” Marcus said, leaning against the window frame. “By tomorrow morning, Ricci’s warehouses will be raided by federal agents.”

He stepped closer again, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked down at my hand resting in my pocket.

“What do you have there?” he asked suddenly.

My breath caught in my throat.

“Nothing,” I said, forcing my hand to slip out of my pocket naturally, leaving the device hidden inside. “My hands are just cold.”

Marcus grabbed my wrist, his grip tight and unyielding.