Chapter 8 - THE FORTY-SECOND FLOORThe elevator of the Sterling & Finch tower chimed softly as it reached the forty-second floor.
The doors slid open to reveal a world of white marble, brushed steel, and floor-to-ceiling glass windows that offered a panoramic view of the gray Boston skyline stretching out beneath a heavy rain-slicked sky. The entire floor was dead silent. Not a single receptionist sat at the curved marble front desk; not a single administrative assistant clacked away at a keyboard.
The entire floor had been cleared out.
I stepped out of the elevator car in a tailored charcoal blazer and black trousers Adrian’s people had had rushed over from a private boutique on Newbury Street. My heels clicked rhythmically against the polished marble as I walked down the long, empty corridor toward Marcus Sterling’s executive suite.
Hidden inside the lining of my blazer was a micro-comms earpiece linked directly to Adrian’s tactical channel. Three floors down, parked in a black unmarked van in the underground garage, Adrian and a twelve-man assault team were monitoring my every footstep through the building's hacked security feed.
“I’m approaching the double mahogany doors,” I whispered quietly, pressing my thumb against the hidden mic behind my lapel.
“Copy that, Elena,” Adrian’s voice hissed back instantly, low and steady. “Remember, we’re two minutes behind you. If Marcus so much as reaches for a drawer, you drop flat. Let us handle the door.”
“I can handle it,” I whispered back.
“This isn't an event planning consultation, Elena. This is a wolf den.”
I took a breath, pushed open the heavy mahogany doors, and stepped into Marcus Sterling’s private office.
The room was vast, dominated by a massive teakwood desk facing the floor-to-ceiling windows. Standing by the glass, holding a crystal tumbler of amber whiskey, was Marcus Sterling himself. He wore a bespoke navy suit, his silver hair neatly combed back, looking every bit the picture of distinguished corporate royalty.
At the edge of the desk stood a familiar figure: Julian Vance.
May you like
Julian’s face was bruised on one cheek where Adrian had slammed him against the wall earlier that morning, and a white bandage was taped over his temple, but his smile was as sharp and venomous as ever. He wasn't holding a coffee cup anymore; he was holding a heavy, silenced FN Five-seyes pistol, pointing it casually toward the center of the room.
“Elena,” Marcus said, turning slowly from the window with a warm, grandfatherly smile that didn't reach his dead, calculating eyes. “I knew you were smart. I told Julian you’d figure out how to navigate your way out of Belladonna. Welcome home.”
