The next day,
Aria
The velvet-lined carriage smelled of expensive tobacco, aged plum wine, and the underlying, sour sweat of a man who knew his sins had finally outrun his security detail.
Baron Malakor, one of the Capital’s primary investors in the Silver Fang Syndicate, shifted uncomfortably against the satin cushions. He stared out the rain-streaked window at the flickering gas lamps of the Golden District, completely oblivious to the shadow clinging to the roof above him.
I had masked myself before, slipping through the small ventilation hatch of the carriage roof like oil, dropping onto the opposite seat without a single spring creaking beneath my weight.
Malakor gasped, his hand flying to the gold-plated cane between his knees, but before his fingers could tighten around the han
