Ethan walked into the office at four fifteen. The building was quiet. Most of the staff had gone home. The cleaning crew hadn't arrived yet. The only light came from Seraphina's desk lamp and the glow of her screen.She was still there. Coat on. Bag packed. Her keys in her hand. Waiting.He set his bag down. "How long have you been here?""Long enough." She didn't look up. "How was Cross Industries?""Fine.""What does 'fine' mean?"Ethan sat down. "Andrew is worried. The investors are nervous. I need to fix things with Chloe's family."Seraphina finally looked at him. Her expression was flat, but there was something underneath. Something she was holding back."I already fixed it."Ethan blinked. "What?""The investor problem. I found a company. Chinese. They're willing to go all in. I spent the afternoon on calls with their London office. Signed the preliminary agreement an hour ago."She slid a folder across her desk toward him.Ethan opened it. Pages of legalese. Signatures. A corp

Ethan's phone buzzed at eight-fifteen. Unknown number. A single line: "The Attic. Nine o'clock. Don't be late. —E.G." He stared at the screen. The Attic was a private lounge downtown, the kind of place with a membership list and a door that didn't open for everyone. He had been once, years ago, with a client who liked dark corners and off-the-record conversations. He typed back: "Who is this?" The reply came in seconds: "The only person who can save you from your brother." Ethan grabbed his keys. --- The Attic was on the fifth floor of a building that looked abandoned from the street. A steel door, a buzzer, a camera. He pressed the button. The lock clicked. A man in a black suit led him through a short corridor into a room with dark leather booths, low amber lighting, and no windows. Eleanor Graves was sitting in the corner booth. She was fiftyish, silver hair pinned tight, a black dress that cost more than most people's rent. No drink in front of her. No phone on the table. J

Eight-O-Five PMEthan parked across the street from Seraphina's building and killed the engine.The lights were on in her window. Third floor. Corner unit. He had been here twice before. Both times, he had knocked and she had opened the door and smiled. That was months ago. That was before Chloe, before Adrian, before he started treating her like a machine instead of a person.He sat in the dark and watched the window.The building was old. Brick. Fire escapes bolted to the front. A streetlight flickered at the corner, buzzing like a dying insect. He could hear music from somewhere, something low and slow, maybe a radio or maybe just his own head filling the silence.He got out.The stairs creaked. The hallway smelled like boiled cabbage and mildew. He stood in front of her door for a long moment. The paint was peeling. The brass numbers were tarnished.He knocked.The door opened.A woman stood there. Older. Grey hair pulled back in a loose bun. Seraphina's face, but softer. The same

Ethan didn't knock. He pushed the study door open so hard it hit the wall behind it, and the sound echoed through the room like a gunshot. The chandelier above the desk trembled, and a stack of papers on the corner of the desk slid an inch before settling.Richard Cross was sitting behind his desk with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He didn't look surprised to see his son. He didn't look sick either. His face was ruddy and full, his eyes were clear and sharp, and his hand was steady when he raised the glass to his lips. The oxygen tank that had been next to his bed during Ethan's last visit was nowhere in sight. The blankets and the pillows and the entire performance of a dying man had all been packed away, probably the same day Ethan had signed the forty percent agreement."Ethan," Richard said, his voice calm and unhurried. "I was wondering when you'd come. Gerald said you were in a mood."Ethan walked to the desk and slammed the photograph down on the polished wood. The grainy bla

The motel was on the south side of the city, tucked between a pawn shop and a vacant lot, the kind of place where the neon sign flickered and half the letters had burned out. Room 17 was at the end of the ground floor, the window dark, the door painted a color that might have been blue once. Ethan parked in the back lot and checked the gun in his jacket pocket. Volkov had told him to keep it, and tonight he was glad he had.He walked around the building, his shoes crunching on loose gravel, and stopped in front of the door. There was no light coming from inside, but he could hear the muffled sound of a television. He didn't knock. He tried the knob, and the door swung open.The room smelled like sweat and old beer and something sour. A television was mounted to the wall, playing some late-night action movie with the volume turned low. On the couch, sprawled across the cushions with his head tilted back and his mouth half open, was the driver. He was still wearing the same clothes from