The black SUV had barely cleared the gravel driveway of the mill when Elena Thorne reached for her phone, her hands trembling—not with maternal grief, but with a cold, vibrating rage. She didn't call her lawyers. She didn't call the firm. She dialed a burner number she had kept active since her "exile" to Dubai.
"It’s done," she said, her voice sharp as a diamond cutter. "He’s at the hotel. Meet me at the safe house in Chelsea. We need to recalibrate."
Three hours later, Elena stood in a dimly lit townhouse in one of London’s most expensive, anonymous crescents. The air inside was stale, smelling of old leather and expensive scotch. Sitting in a wingback chair by the fireplace was Leo Moretti. He looked different than he had in the boardroom—thinner, his eyes more sunken, the desperat
