The apartment was quiet except for the ticking of the clock. Elara sat at her desk, the dim light casting long shadows over the scattered photographs and notes spread before her.
Tonight’s target: Vincent Mallory. Wealthy art dealer. Widower. And beneath the glossy veneer of high society, a predator who’d destroyed young lives for decades while paying off the silence of those who dared speak.
She’d been watching him for weeks — his schedule, his patterns, his weaknesses. He lived alone, but never without his armed driver and two guards. On the surface, he seemed untouchable.
But everyone had a gap.
Elara’s gaze settled on a photograph of Mallory visiting a private warehouse where he stored his most prized art pieces. One guard waited outside during these visits; the other always stayed
