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Monica blinked once, twice, as her eyes scanned Nathan Whitaker from head to toe. She looked past the damp shoulders of his custom charcoal overcoat, past the expensive tailoring beneath, and straight into eyes that looked like winter ice. Monica had lived on Madison Avenue long enough to recognize money, but more importantly, she recognized power. And Nathan Whitaker was radiating a lethal, controlled fury that made every salesperson in the store take an involuntary step back.
The hum of the medical monitors filled the sudden, suffocating silence of the trauma suite. Through the thick glass wall, Caleb Rourke and the remaining syndicate guards watched like a pack of wolves waiting outside a den, their hands hovering dangerously close to the concealed holsters beneath their tailored suits. Melissa stood behind them, her face pale, chewing a fingernail down to the quick as she realized the sheer magnitude of the gamble she had just made with Nora’s life.