He kept his hand flat on the leather document case on his lap.

“Proof of offshore accounts,” he said. “Harrison has been skimming from the hotel development funds for six years.”

“Is it enough to ruin him?” I asked.

“It is enough to send him to federal prison,” Jonathan said, his jaw tightening.

The Manhattan skyline loomed ahead of us, a wall of glass and steel piercing the low, gray clouds.

We crossed the Manhattan Bridge in silence.

The tires hummed against the metal grating of the span.

I felt a cold dread pooling in my stomach.

Harrison Vance was not a man who retreated when cornered.

He was a predator who tore down everything around him when threatened.

We pulled up to the curb outside the Vance Global headquarters on Park Avenue.

The building was a seventy-story monolith of black glass and polished granite.

The lobby was vast, empty, and silent, tiled in white marble that reflected the harsh overhead lights.

The security guard at the desk stood up when he saw Jonathan.

“Mr. Vance,” the guard said, bowing his head slightly.