The Mayfair district was the antithesis of the East End. Here, the fog didn't cling; it hovered like a velvet curtain over rows of Georgian townhouses and high-end galleries where the world’s sins were laundered into "provenance." Seraphina stepped out of the black sedan, her heels clicking against the wet pavement with the precision of a metronome. She wore a dress of midnight-blue velvet that absorbed the light, her hair swept up to reveal the cold, calculating grace of a woman who had spent three months perfecting the art of the ghost.
"The invitation is digital, Dante," she murmured, adjusting the hidden earpiece. "Stay in the car with the driver. If the signal goes red, you initiate Protocol Zero. You do not wait for me."
"I know the rules, Sera," Dante’s voice crackled in her ear,
