Annoyed that his broken bride was taking too long to succumb, he stood, straightened his lapels, and walked lazily toward the heavy double doors of the master bathroom.

He intended to kick the door in and drag her out by her hair to sign the deed. But before his hand could even brush the brass knob, his phone lit up with an automated fraud alert from his bank.

Then another. Then the Wi-Fi dropped. Then the room phone went dead. The penthouse suddenly felt less like a fortress and more like a box.

And somewhere far below, in a bank of black SUVs sliding into a perimeter around the hotel, the devil had begun, quietly and methodically, to collect his due.

Chapter 3: The Financial Guillotine

By 9:00 a.m. the following morning, the sun was shining brightly over Newport, but inside the Grand Plaza penthouse, a suffocating atmosphere of dawning panic had fully set in.

I sat in my leather wingback chair in the library, the storm outside long cleared, sipping a cup of black coffee that tasted like ash.