"Move those crates before I drag them out myself," I said, shoving a rusted metal box off the edge of the workbench.
It hit the floor with a deafening crash, scattering nails across the damp concrete. Rhys flinched, grabbing the back of his chair as I slammed my laptop onto the cleared wooden surface.
"You've lost your mind, Vivienne," Rhys said, stepping toward me with his palms open. "Look at this place. It's a derelict shipping terminal in the middle of Brooklyn. It doesn't even have a lock on the main door."
"It has three separate power lines, no street cameras, and a private satellite link," I snapped, pulling two thick yellow cables from my leather bag. "That makes it better than any glass office downtown."
"The federal authorities are freezing every account linked to your family
