The private elevator shot up to the seventy-eighth floor so fast my ears popped, the doors gliding open silently to reveal a space that looked like a cross between a modern art museum and an operating room for the gods.
Roman Wolfe’s penthouse was aggressively massive. Floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows opened up to a sweeping view of the New York skyline, the city lights looking like a carpet of diamonds thrown at this man's feet. Inside, the vibe was pure billionaire minimalism: raw concrete, dark walnut, polished chrome, and a complete absence of anything human. It was so sterile it made me want to mess something up just to bring some chaos into his high-tech void.
"Go on in. Don't be shy," Roman said, tossing Landon’s backpack onto a leather sofa that was literally bigger than my ent
