The Madrid night lay thick over the city, as if the sun had let go of the squares, the windows, and the cobbled streets reluctantly, inch by inch. Only one light was on in the kitchen on the hotel's second floor. The cold fluorescent glow lit up the steel countertops, the small four-person table, and the single woman sitting there—Sloane Quinn.
Only a few bites remained on her plate, but her fork hadn't moved in minutes. The food had gone cold, and she hadn't noticed. Her eyes stared at the edge of the plate, but her mind was elsewhere. In the ring. At Paolo's punch. That one strike—too precise, too deep.
And then the door opened quietly.
Lennox Graves walked in. His hair was still wet, slicked back. His black shirt clung slightly to his body. His walk... was unnatural. Too stiff. Too c
