The Gulfstream was quiet in that expensive, closed-off way private jets always were. Soft leather, dim lights, the low rumble of the engines holding steady beneath the floor. Outside the windows, everything was dark blue and gone.
Luca Rennick sat back in a seat that was bigger than he needed, staring at a tablet on the table in front of him. The screen was full of crucial data, but tonight it barely meant anything to him. He was looking at it, but not really seeing it.
He picked up his phone and watched the screen light up his face.
His last call with Isabella had lasted forty-two minutes. It somehow still felt short.
They had talked about London. Her dad's garden. Random little things. The kind of talk people use when they do not know what else to say anymore.
"How are you?"
"I'm fine."
That sort of thing.
Nothing wrong with it, exactly.
That was the problem.
Luca had been feeling it for a while before he could even put a name to it.
