The private jet cut through darkness somewhere over the Mediterranean, and Valentina spent most of the flight staring at a map of Marseille without seeing it.
"You should rest," Damien said, watching her from across the narrow cabin. "We land in three hours. You'll need to be sharp."
"I haven't been able to rest properly in seven years. I don't think three hours on a plane is going to change that."
He didn't argue. He simply reached into his bag and handed her a folder she hadn't seen before — thinner than the others, freshly printed.
"What is this?"
"Everything my people gathered on the apartment in the last twelve hours. Lease records, neighboring tenants, a partial list of visitors logged by the building's security. It's not much, but it's a place to start once we're on the ground.
