The next morning at nine o'clock sharp, the tension inside the main executive boardroom of Black Rose headquarters was suffocating enough to crush bone.
Pale morning light bled through the tall, bulletproof glass windows, cutting across the heavy, polished mahogany conference table. The air was cold, thick with the scent of dark espresso, gun oil, and unspoken violence.
Arora stood at the head of the long table, clad in a crisp black linen shirt and a custom-tailored dark suit. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her posture as rigid and unyielding as a steel blade. Her dark eyes were unblinking, masking the bone-deep physical exhaustion from her late-night run to the Avalanche Bar vault just hours ago.
