The five men surrounding Marcus looked at each other, then at the balcony, then at the dogs who had abandoned them.

One by one, they let their handguns drop to the marble floor with heavy thuds.

Marcus looked around, his face turning pale in the dim light.

“This is my house, Marcus,” Lucian said, stepping forward.

He did not shoot him.

Instead, Lucian walked up to him and took the glass of scotch from his hand.

“You will tell us every name on those Chicago accounts,” Lucian said. “And then you will leave this city.”

“And if I don’t?” Marcus asked, his voice trembling now.

Lucian looked back at me.

I walked over to the two Dobermans, kneeling down in my wet clothes.

I placed my hands on their wet heads, scratching them behind the ears.

They leaned into my touch, panting softly.

“If you don’t,” I said, looking up at Marcus, “we let the dogs have their dinner.”

Marcus stared at me, his eyes wide with a fear he had never shown to Lucian.

“I will write them down,” Marcus whispered.