The farmhouse kitchen was dead quiet at 0200 hours. Only the low hum of the fridge and the occasional pop from the dying fire in the living room. Bella was asleep upstairs—finally, after hours of tossing and turning. The rest of us were gathered around the dining table like we were planning a war, because we were.
Marcus spread the condo blueprints Nadia had given us across the wood. Red marker circled the penthouse level, the private elevator, the service stairwell, the roof access. Lydia’s laptop glowed with live feeds from the building’s external cameras—grainy but clear enough to show the doorman yawning at his desk, the lobby empty, the garage gate closed.
Nadia sat between Rico and me, still in the same black coat, looking like she hadn’t slept in days but refusing to show it. She
