The harsh, metallic rattle of the burner phone shattered the pre-dawn quiet of the penthouse.
Julianne reached it first. Bypassing the caller ID—only one person held the routing sequence for this specific device—she pressed the green icon and engaged the speaker.
"Channel four." Mark’s voice clipped through the audio, tight and breathless. "Now."
Christian snatched the television remote from the console. He punched in the international financial feed, bypassing the local networks entirely.
The screen flickered. A glowing stock ticker vanished, replaced by a live helicopter shot. High above the Mediterranean coastline, the camera panned over a cliffside villa in Monaco. Flashing blue police lights reflected off the sleek, white stucco walls, bleeding into the pristine water of a massive
