The heavy brass grandfather clock in the corner of the grand penthouse foyer ticked with a slow, heavy rhythm, marking the passage of the afternoon hours. Rossman-Morgan was before the tall, gilded mirror, his pale face illuminated by the bright vanity lights surrounding the frame. He held a heavy gold-plated razor in his right hand, scraping away two days of gray stubble from his hollow cheeks with stiff strokes. Every line on his weathered face seemed deeper today, etched into his skin by the relentless weight of fifty million dollars in unpayable debt and four decades of corporate pride hanging by a single frayed thread. He washed the white shaving foam off his face with cold water, patting his skin dry with a plush white towel before turning his attention to his wardrobe. Across the carpeted dressing room, Sean Thickcup stood before an open armoire filled with dozens of custo

The icy rain poured down, splashing heavily against the leather of Rossman-Morgan’s shoes as he stood on the gravel driveway. Beside him, Sean Thickcup pulled his dark wool coat tighter over his injured right arm, his teeth chattering from the freezing damp wind cutting through the courtyard. The tall man in the butler uniform stepped back into the shadows without uttering a single word, leaving the passenger door of the black limousine wide open behind them. Morgan took a slow step forward, his old legs feeling heavy and stiff as his eyes locked onto the massive double doors of The Grand Monarch Club. The twin doors were ten feet tall, framed by thick stone pillars and carved with intricate historical coats of arms that usually glowed under bright decorative lanterns. Tonight, not a single lantern burned on the exterior walls, leaving the heavy wood grain shrouded in a thi