The high-society pre-gala reception at the Grand Carlton Conservatory was supposed to be a civilized display of underworld diplomacy.
Under the terms of the decade-old Atlantic Treaty, weapons were strictly forbidden inside the glass-walled hall, enforced by neutral security contractors stationed at every archway. Beneath towering crystal chandeliers and hanging white orchids, the heads of the five major syndicates mingled with corrupt supreme court justices, foreign diplomats, and banking titans.
I walked through the grand hall with my hand resting lightly over the sleeve of Lucien’s charcoal tuxedo.
I wore a sleek, high-necked emerald velvet dress that draped like liquid silk down to my heels, my dark hair pinned back with antique diamond clips. Beside me, Lucien moved with the predat
