The air in the bedroom smelled of cheap eucalyptus vapor and old iron, heavy enough to choke a man. Sarah shifted against the flattened pillow, her breath rattling like dry leaves inside a tin box.

The deadbolt didn't just turn; it slid back with the oily smoothness of a well-maintained mechanism.

I didn't wait for them to kick the frame in. I lunged forward, slamming my shoulder into the wooden door just as the latch cleared the strike plate. The door smashed outward, catching whoever was standing on the other side square in the chest with a wet thud.

A man grunted, stumbling backward onto the narrow landing. He was wearing a dark trench coat that smelled of wet wool and cheap cigars, his face half-hidden under the brim of a fedora. Before he could clear leather, I grabbed the lapels of his coat, hauled him over the threshold, and slammed him against the peeling plaster wall of the hallway.

"Who sent you?" I hissed, pressing the barrel of the Sig right under his jawline so hard his skin dimpled.

The man didn't flinch. He just smiled, revealing a gold-capped canine that caught the dim amber light of the hallway bulb. His eyes were small, wet, and utterly dead—the eyes of a man who had spent twenty years in state prison and didn't give a damn about parole.

"Nice grip, Moretti," the man rasped, his breath hot and reeking of peppermint schnapps. "Old man Moretti would’ve put a bullet in my ribs before asking my name. You’re getting soft in your old age. Must be all those fancy pasta places downtown."

"I'll ask you once," I said, cocking the hammer with a sharp, metallic click that echoed in the tiny space. "Who's your boss? Is it Marcone’s kid?"

"Marcone’s gone, boss. Liver cancer back in nineteen-nine," the man said, his smile widening into something ugly. "We work for the new board. The ones who bought up your father’s old account books when the estate went into probate last winter."

The floor seemed to drop out from under my feet.

"My father's books were burned," I said, though my voice wavered just enough for him to hear it. "I watched him throw the black ledger into the furnace the night he had his first stroke."

"He thought he burned 'em," the man laughed, coughing wetly as the gun barrel pressed deeper into his throat. "But old men are forgetful. He kept a duplicate set in a safe-deposit box down at the First National under a dummy corporation. And guess who bought the bank's unclaimed asset locker last November? Us."

From behind me, a low, metallic scrape sounded from the bedroom.

I didn't take my eyes off the man in the hallway, but my peripheral vision caught a movement by the doorframe. Lily was crawling out from under the bed, holding the brass key that had spilled from the yellow tin.

"Nate," Sarah called out, her voice weaker now, strained to the breaking point. "The key... the key doesn't open the front door. It opens the old safe in the basement of the laundry on Racine. The one your father said didn't exist."