The rain had turned into a thick, misty drizzle by the time our motorcade turned off Broadway and glided onto Liberty Street.
The Federal Reserve Bank of New York stood like an imposing, Florentine palazzo built of sandstone and granite, its vaulted archways and massive iron lanterns looming over the narrow downtown canyon. At 3:45 PM, the surrounding streets were quiet, cleared of foot traffic by private security details and police barricades.
Inside the high-ceilinged marble rotunda, the air was chilled, sterile, and heavy with the scent of wet umbrella canvas, floor polish, and old institutional money.
Enzo and I walked side by side across the inlaid marble floor, our heels striking the stone in a synchronized, unyielding cadence. Four private security officers formed a discreet diam
