Through the tinted window, I watched the final act of the Vance legacy play out on the sidewalk.

Chloe was being led out by two female NYPD officers, in handcuffs. The steel bit into her wrists, contrasting violently with the delicate lace of her sleeves.

Her gown was torn, stained with spilled wine and my blood, dragging through dirty city puddles. She was weeping, screaming at the cameras flashing in her face.

Behind her, federal agents were walking Robert Vance to an unmarked sedan. He looked hollowed out. Aged ten years in ten minutes. He didn’t fight. He just stared at the pavement while the realization of his ruin crushed him into silence.

“We pulled the trigger on the indictments,” Sterling said from the front seat, tapping a secure tablet. “Your father’s assets are frozen. The company will be dismantled by the DOJ by Monday.

And your sister is being booked for felony assault with a deadly weapon.”