I drove her away with cold, calculated cruelty because the internal financial threat against Moretti Logistics had turned dangerous, and I needed her far from this building before the board ripped itself apart.

I believed she’d taken the morning train to her sister’s place in Illinois.

I believed she was safe, living a quiet, ordinary life a long way from shipping manifests and internal audits.

I reached into the bottom drawer of the desk, took out a bottle of oak-aged bourbon and poured two fingers into a heavy crystal glass.

I turned the gold ring under my glove, its sharp edges pressing into my knuckle.

At five to ten the black desk phone rang.