“Hold on,” Gabriel said, his deep voice cutting through the whispers in the room.

The hotel security guards stopped instantly, looking confused by the sudden arrival of federal agents.

“Gabriel?” my father said, his brow furrowing as he took a step forward. “This is a private family matter.”

“Not anymore, Richard,” Gabriel said, stopping a few feet from our group.

He looked at the lead federal agent, who stepped forward and produced a gold badge from his pocket.

“Special Agent Harris, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” the agent said. “We are here executing a federal warrant.”

Ethan’s face paled slightly, though he tried to maintain his smug composure by adjusting his tuxedo cuffs.

“If you’re here about the foundation theft, Claire is right there,” Ethan said, pointing at me again. “We have the IP logs proving she initiated the transfers.”

Gabriel pulled a thin, sleek tablet from his leather briefcase.

“Those IP logs were routed through a proxy server registered to your personal estate in Wisconsin, Ethan,” Gabriel said.

He tapped the screen, and the tablet connected wirelessly to the large presentation screen behind the band’s stage.