Chapter 6 6

Chloe Gutierrez sat in Florian's office, her legs crossed elegantly. She was wearing a dress that cost more than Alessandra's entire wardrobe.

She slid a black folder across the desk. Her fingers lingered on Florian's hand for a second too long.

"I heard about the marriage," Chloe said. Her voice was like honey laced with arsenic. "Such a shame. I always thought we would make a perfect power couple."

Florian pulled his hand away. He opened the folder. "It was a business acquisition, Chloe. Nothing more."

"Of course," she smiled. "But business can be... fluid."

Florian didn't smile back. "I'll review the proposal. You can go."

Chloe stood up. Her eyes flashed with malice. As she walked out, she pulled out her phone. She sent a text to a number with no name.

Execute Phase One.

In a sterile lab in Zurich, Dante Winters held a test tube.

His phone pinged. An encrypted email.

He opened it. It was a grainy photo of Alessandra entering the courthouse, looking terrified. The subject line read: Your sister was sold.

Dante's grip tightened. The test tube shattered. Glass shards sliced into his gloved hand. Blood mixed with the chemical solution.

He didn't feel the pain.

"Silas," he growled. "Florian."

He grabbed a rag, wrapped his bleeding hand, and walked out. He left the experiment running. He had a plane to catch.

Back at The Obsidian, Alessandra was reading on her tablet.

Suddenly, the lights flickered.

The entire penthouse went dark for a split second, then rebooted with a soft hum. The green light on the door lock blinked rapidly before settling back to a steady glow.

Alessandra looked up. That wasn't a power surge. That was a system override. A hack.

She walked to the door. She pushed the handle.

It opened.

The cold air of the hallway hit her face.

She didn't think. She didn't grab shoes. She was still wearing the oversized wool socks she had found in a drawer. She grabbed her coat and ran.

She didn't run for freedom. She ran for answers.

She hit the elevator button. It worked.

When she burst out of the lobby doors, the San Francisco wind hit her like a physical blow. It smelled of exhaust and rain.

She hailed a taxi. The driver looked at her socks, her wild hair.

"I have no cash," she typed on her phone. She unclasped the vintage Cartier watch from her wrist-the only thing her grandmother had left her. She held it up.

The driver's eyes widened. "Get in."