“Let them in,” Julian said.

“Sir?” the security guard asked, sounding surprised. “The reception is still going on in the ballroom.”

“The guests—”

“Let them in,” Julian repeated, and cut the connection.

The silence returned, heavier this time.

From the floor below, the faint, muffled sound of a brass saxophone drifted through the floorboards.

The party was still in full swing.

Chicago’s elite were drinking champagne, celebrating the anniversary of the Sterling Group.

They had no idea that the foundation of the company was crumbling right above their heads.

“You cannot let them arrest me here,” Miranda said, her voice rising in panic.

“The press is downstairs.”

“The Tribune has a photographer at the entrance.”

“Then you should have thought of that before you kept a stolen fortune in your desk,” I said.

Miranda stood up, her hands trembling.

“Julian, do something,” she pleaded. “Call the lawyers.”

“Call Representative Hayes.”

“He owes us.”

Julian turned his back to her, looking out the dark window at the rain lashing against the glass.

“There are no more phone calls, Mother,” he said.