The threat felt heavy in the quiet hallway.

As we stepped out of the building, my eyes scanned the busy street, looking at every parked car, every passerby.

Every shadow looked like one of Derek’s associates.

We reached Marisol’s car and got in.

The drive to the Biscayne Bank branch took fifteen minutes through heavy traffic.

My hands were sweaty, sticking to the leather seat.

We parked in the bank’s underground garage.

The concrete structure was cool and dimly lit.

We walked toward the glass doors leading to the lobby.

A man in a sharp grey suit was standing near the entrance, checking his watch.

As we approached, he turned his head and looked directly at us.

He smiled, a cold, practiced expression that made my blood run cold.

It was Arthur Vance.

He began walking toward us, his leather shoes clicking against the polished tile floor.

“Elena,” he said, his voice smooth and commanding. “I was hoping I would run into you here.”

“Mr. Vance,” Marisol said, stepping slightly in front of me.

The air conditioning in the bank lobby was freezing, but a bead of sweat rolled down the back of my neck.