The streetlights of the Upper East Side blurred rapidly behind the windows of the black sedan driving through the drizzle. Inside the soundproof cabin, the atmosphere felt as dense as soot.
Valera sat in the back seat, leaning her back against the leather upholstery. Her body trembled violently—not entirely staged, but a real biological reaction to the image of the scalpel hovering over her father's neck a short while ago. Her cold fingers squeezed each other on her lap.
Beside her, Garrick Valentino sat upright. His gray eyes stared straight at the wet street ahead, but one of his hands gripped Valera's fingers with exceedingly powerful pressure—a grip that left no room for refusal, while simultaneously serving as a conduit for the cold tension currently burning inside his chest.
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