The penthouse was a sanctuary of glass, but inside, the air felt like it was made of pressurized mercury. It had been forty-eight hours since Dante had returned from the "Night of Long Knives," and he hadn't slept. He sat at the head of the long obsidian dining table, which had been converted into a tactical hub.
Anna stood by the window, watching the city below. It looked the same—the neon lights of the commercial district, the smog over the industrial zone—but she knew it was different. The silence coming from the streets was unnatural. The usual sirens were absent. The city was holding its breath.
"Come here, Anna," Dante rasped. He didn't look up from the tablet he was scrolling through, but his voice had that low, magnetic pull that always made her heart skip.
She hesitated, then walked over. She was wearing a silk slip dress he had chosen for her—the color of a deep, vintage wine. It felt like a second skin, far too thin for the air-conditioned chill of the room.
