Three gold coins lay on the marble table when I told my maid’s three-year-old daughter she could make any three wishes she wanted. Ellie ignored every toy around her and asked, “Why does Mommy have to say sorry when she didn’t do it?” The moment those words left her mouth, I stopped watching the child and looked directly at my brother Dante.

The heavy hydraulic shutters on the dining hall windows didn't muffle the sound of the breach outside.

Searchlights cut through the small high-level slits in the iron plates, sending blinding white beams sweeping across the red-lit ceiling. The muffled voices of tactical commanders shouting through megaphones reverberated through the stone foundation:

"FBI Task Force! All security personnel drop your weapons and step away from the vehicles!"

Dante lay on the floor, panting violently, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps as he clutched his ruined knee. "They're... they're here, Vince... you're going to prison... you assaulted me... you locked me in here..."

"I'm not going to prison, Dante," I said, walking over to the wall control panel and flipping the hydraulic release switch.

With a deep, mechanical groan, the heavy three-inch iron shutters began sliding upward, revealing the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the front courtyard.

Outside, the scene was illuminated by the flashing red and blue strobes of twenty federal law enforcement vehicles. Marcus Torrell’s tactical team had completely overwhelmed Dante’s private contractors, who were currently lying face-down in the snow with their hands zip-tied behind their backs.

Special Agent Miller—the same federal officer who had been investigating maritime fraud for two years—was marching up the stone steps toward the front doors, flanked by four heavily armed officers carrying tactical shields.

I pressed the master release button for the dining hall doors.

The magnetic locks disengaged with a loud CLACK, and the heavy oak doors swung open.

Agent Miller stepped into the hall, his rifle held at low ready, his sharp eyes taking in the room in a single second: the blood on the Persian rug, Dante writhing on the floor, Clara clutching her daughter near the fire, and me—standing calmly at the head of the mahogany table, holding three brass souvenir coins in my palm.

"Mr. Moretti," Agent Miller said, lowering his weapon slightly. "Marcus told us to expect a situation, but this looks like a crime scene."

"It is a crime scene, Agent Miller," I said, pointing toward my brother. "Under that table lies the man who murdered David Vance, ran an illegal arms network through Pier 14, and conspired with Vance Pharmaceuticals to falsify pediatric clinical trial data that killed eighty-four children."

Agent Miller paused, his eyes narrowing as he looked from me to Dante. "Vance Pharmaceuticals? We were only authorized for maritime fraud."

"You have the authority now," Clara said, standing up from her chair, her voice trembling but steady as she stepped into the center of the room. "I am Clara Vance. My husband was David Vance. I have the master decryption files for the offshore accounts on this flash drive."

She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small, silver drive—the key David Vance had hidden inside Ellie’s stuffed bear before he died.

Agent Miller looked at the drive, then at two of his officers. "Get a medic for the suspect on the floor. Get him locked down under federal guard at Mount Sinai."

"Not Mount Sinai," I said flatly.

Miller looked at me. "Why?"

"Because Harrison Vance owns Mount Sinai," I said, stepping past him toward the hallway. "Take my brother to the Federal Detention Center in Manhattan. And prepare a convoy for Boston."