The Gulfstream sliced through the dawn over the Atlantic, the cabin bathed in a bruised purple light that felt like a premonition. I sat on the edge of the silk-lined berth, the silver Sucre clutched in my palm so tightly the metal bit into my skin. The glowing text on the burner phone had faded into black, but the words were burned into my retinas: The vault was only the beginning.
My father, G.V. Stellaris—the man whose death Roman had practically guaranteed in the mountains of Ecuador—was still reaching out from the grave, or perhaps from a shadow I hadn't yet identified. I flipped the coin over, my eyes tracing the microscopic etchings I had missed in the dim light of the Andes. They weren't just coordinates; they were a frequency.
"You’re vibrating, Brielle."
Roman was standing in
