The same night.
Imperial Palace Hotel, Presidential Suite.
Jason Zane leaned forward, his spine curved in a permanent arc of subservience. Every time he spoke to the man on the sofa, his head bobbed in a rhythmic, frantic nod. "Mr. Hunt, was the arrangement to your liking this evening? I had the kitchen prepare the bluefin tuna specifically for your arrival."
On the velvet sofa sat Spencer Hunt. He was in his early thirties, but a life of unchecked decadence had left him with deep, sunken hollows beneath his eyes and a complexion as pale as parchment. He looked like a man who had forgotten what sunlight felt like. He waved a languid hand, a gold-and-emerald ring catching the light.
"Little Zane, don't worry about the small things," Spencer said, his voice a smooth, oily rasp. "We’re br
