Rebecca looked out the window at the passing city lights.

“I will do it,” she said, her voice tight. “But I want my immunity secured, Benjamin.”

“The federal prosecutor is already on standby,” Benjamin assured her.

We crossed the bridge into Manhattan, the skyline rising up like a wall of dark glass.

The rain began to fall harder, streaking the windows of the sedan.

When we arrived at the Vance Group headquarters, the lobby was nearly empty.

A single security guard stood near the brass turnstiles.

“Mr. Vance,” the guard said, looking surprised as Jonathan walked past. “Your uncle said no visitors tonight.”

“I am not a visitor, Greg,” Jonathan said, keeping his pace steady.

We entered the private elevator, and Jonathan pressed the button for the penthouse suite.

The ride up was silent, the hum of the motor the only sound in the small cabin.

I looked at Jonathan’s reflection in the polished steel door.

His jaw was set, his hands resting quietly in his pockets.

The elevator bell chimed, and the doors slid open to the executive lobby.