The room was located on the third floor of an unindexed mews house in Belgravia, tucked behind a row of embassies whose private servers leaked enough diplomatic white noise to blind the local tracking nodes. It had no corporate registration.
Marcus, Damien’s assistant, had booked the space through a non-voting shell company using an administrative expense loop that bypassed the primary Blackwood ledger entirely. There was no listed purpose for the lease, no shared calendar entry, and no digital breadcrumb linking it to the impending multi-generational liquidation running through the Brussels clearinghouse.
Damien Blackwood stood by the unlit hearth, his massive silhouette cutting a dark line against the pale limestone mantle. His black dress shirt was unbuttoned at the cuffs, his heavy
