The Maybach moved through the city like a silent predator, the world outside a blur of fractured light and shadow. I said nothing. I was a strategist, and the first rule of engagement is to understand the terrain. Alexander Sterling was not terrain; he was a tectonic plate, and I was standing on the fault line.
The car didn’t stop at a restaurant. It glided into a private, underground entrance of a nondescript heritage building. A silent valet opened my door. We rode a private, wood-paneled elevator to a floor with no buttons, just a single, unmarked door.
Inside was a single table in a private alcove, overlooking a serene Japanese garden. A wall of living orchids breathed a faint, sweet scent into the air. This wasn't a business dinner. This was a dissection.
A waiter appeared as if fr
