Chapter 7 - The Penthouse in Midtown
The black bulletproof Mercedes pulled up outside a fifty-story glass monolith in Midtown Manhattan with the silent efficiency of a predator closing in on its prey.
Inside the back seat, Evelyn adjusted the collar of her black wool coat. She wasn't wearing the silver auction dress or the emerald silk gown anymore. She was wearing structured black trousers, a tailored blazer, and boots—attire built for survival, not display.
Dante sat beside her, loading the magazine of a matte-black Sig Sauer pistol with rhythmic, terrifying calmness.
"The penthouse is secured by biometric locks and private security," Dante said without looking up from the weapon. "Once we breach the private elevator, we have approximately three minutes before Victor’s personal detail realizes the building's grid has been compromised."
Evelyn looked out the tinted window at the glowing skyline of the city where she had grown up, realizing for the first time how fragile her entire existence had been. "And if he refuses to talk?"
"He won't refuse," Dante snapped the magazine into the pistol with a sharp click and tucked it into his holster. "Not when he sees who's holding the gun."
They stepped out into the freezing Manhattan wind and crossed the polished marble lobby of the luxury tower. The doorman didn't even blink as Dante flashed a black metal access card; in this city, men like Dante Bellamy didn't need appointments, and security guards knew better than to ask questions.
The private elevator rocketed upward in total silence, the digital floor numbers flashing past at dizzying speed: 42, 45, 48, 50.
Ding.
The doors slid open directly into a sprawling, minimalist penthouse flooded with pale blue moonlight and panoramic views of Central Park.
A man was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding a glass of scotch. He turned around as the elevator chimed, his silver-streaked hair catching the light, his face lined with the hard, cynical contours of a man who had spent a lifetime cheating death.
Victor Sterling.
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He didn't look like a monster. He looked like an exhausted older man in an expensive cashmere sweater. But when his eyes landed on Evelyn standing beside Dante Bellamy, all the color drained from his face.
"Evelyn," he breathed, his glass slipping from his fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor with a sharp crash. "What... what have you done?"
