Clara Vasconcelos did not believe in coincidences when they came wrapped in blood, silence, and a child's face.
She stood beside the glass wall of the executive corridor, one hand still resting on the folder she had almost dropped, and watched the little boy holding Livia Andrade's hand with the serious patience of someone much older than five. The corridor was wide enough for men in tailored suits to pass without touching each other, polished enough to reflect the ceiling lights, and cold enough to make every employee lower their voice. Noah did not seem impressed by any of it. He looked around with calm, dark-lashed eyes, absorbing the tower as if it were a puzzle he had not yet decided whether he liked.
Those eyes stopped Clara in a way nothing else could have.
She had grown up seein
