Rain washed down the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, blurring the sharp, jagged lights of the Manhattan skyline into soft streaks of pale gold and silver.
The storm outside was violent, but inside, the air was warm and heavy with a profound, unbroken quiet. The servers in the study were powered down. The encrypted comms channels were muted. For the first time in weeks, the digital war mapping the destruction of a global syndicate was paused.
Julianne sat cross-legged on the thick, woven rug of a spare room down the hall from the master suite.
The room was entirely empty. There was no heavy mahogany furniture, no monitors, no legal binders stacked against the walls. It was a blank canvas of pale walls and polished hardwood.
Resting in her lap was the physical photograph Vivia
