The clock on the wall read 2:14 a.m., but Elena couldn’t sleep. Not after what they had just uncovered. Her mind was racing, twisted with memories and fear, her heart beating to the rhythm of danger that now felt far too close.
She wandered down the hallway, the soft creak of the wooden floor beneath her bare feet the only sound. Light seeped through the bottom of Damian’s office door. She hesitated a second, then knocked softly.
“Come in,” came his voice, low and calm.
She pushed the door open.
Damian sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty glass of whiskey in one hand, a cigar smoldering in an ashtray nearby. The soft glow of a desk lamp threw gentle shadows across his face. He looked up at her with concern, not surprise.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, motioning
