Up ahead, a sleek private helicopter sat on the painted asphalt of the pad.

A black town car was parked beside it, its doors wide open.

Through the rain-speckled windshield, I saw a woman in a long mink coat standing near the cabin door of the helicopter.

It was Caterina Valenti.

She was holding a rugged tablet, her face illuminated by the blue glow of the screen.

A man in a sharp grey suit stood beside her, shouting into a satellite phone.

Dominic slammed on the brakes, the SUV skidding to a halt just ten yards from the helicopter.

The rotor wash hit the car, sending a spray of water across the glass.

We both pushed our doors open into the freezing gale.

“Caterina!” Dominic yelled.

His mother didn’t look up immediately; her fingers flew across the tablet screen.

“Press the authorization, Arthur,” she told the man in the suit, her voice carrying over the wind. “Send the final tranche to the Cayman account.”

“It’s blocked, Mrs. Valenti,” the lawyer shouted back, his voice tight with panic. “The federal treasury has frozen the routing numbers.”