The flight board flipped letters like a deck of cards. Zurich: on time. Gate B7. Serafini would land into a morning that smelled like coffee and wet metal, walk to a glass office, and try to move money that had already been introduced to doubt.
Nora’s laptop sang quietly on the table. “Compliance packets are out,” she said. “Bank monitors in Zurich. The court’s examiner. A reporter who hates gravy. No fireworks, just paperwork with teeth.”
Emilia watched the thread of it take. She liked this kind of work. It made loud men quiet.
Rafael sat across from her in a corner café near the consulate, one arm stretched along the banquette. The window threw soft light across his jaw. When she caught him looking at her, he didn’t look away. She had to stop herself from smiling too openly. Under the
