Morning came pale and thin. The city had that washed look after a hard night. From the penthouse, the river was a sheet of beaten metal and the cathedral spire punched a small, stubborn hole in the sky.
Nora sprawled at the table with the grey case open, sleeves shoved up, hair tied in a knot that had lost the argument hours ago. Columns of names. Shells stacked inside shells. A ledger that looked like a hymnbook until you read the margins.
“Orsi signs every lane that matters,” she said, tapping a page. “Two classes of donors. Ones that exist and ones that glow when you hold them to the light. The glow pays for speeches.”
“Alonzo?” Emilia asked.
Nora slid over an envelope marked with a neat hand. “Phantom donors routed through the parish. He blesses the wire instructions. The man could
