The remnants of the "disaster dinner" were cleared away by a silent, efficient Ken, but the heavy atmosphere in the penthouse remained. The smell of burnt steak had been replaced by the sharp, metallic scent of tension.
Damien sat in his home office, his sleeves rolled up, a glass of amber liquid—untouched—on the desk. Aria sat opposite him, the "Kiss the Cook" apron gone, replaced by a silk robe wrapped tightly around her frame. She looked pale, but her eyes were dry and dangerous.
The elevator chimed.
Julian Cross walked in. He didn't look like a lawyer tonight; he looked like the Grim Reaper in a bespoke suit. He carried a heavy briefcase and a tablet.
"The police are ruling it a D.U.I.," Julian said without preamble, placing the tablet on the desk. "They found a bottle of vodka in the wreckage. Convenient."
"And the firebombing?" Damien asked, his voice low.
