Cassian Wolfe was not what I expected.
I don't know what I expected exactly, some version of Lucien perhaps, silver-eyed and immovable, a man cut from the same controlled cloth. What I got was someone who looked like he had once been a soldier and hadn't entirely decided to stop. Broad-shouldered, mid-thirties, with a quality of stillness that was different from Lucien's, less like a decision and more like a habit. Like a man who had learned to take up very little space because taking up space had once been dangerous.
He met me at a coffee shop three blocks from my apartment, two days after the breakfast in the penthouse, and he sat across from me and slid a second folder across the table before I had touched my drink. Thicker than the first one. Much thicker.
"Start with the family tre
