The plane taxied and finally came to a stop in front of the private VIP terminal.
The airstairs slowly lowered.
Evelyn Saint Cloud stood beside a black Lincoln sedan.
She wore a sharply tailored coat with the collar popped, her hands thrust into her pockets. Her cold gaze was fixed on the massive, sixty-million-dollar machine.
It was a family asset.
Or, to be more precise, it was a necessary tool she used to maintain the Saint Claude Family's vast, expensive, and parasite-infested ecosystem.
The cabin door opened.
A man appeared at the doorway.
William Saint Cloud.
He was thirty-five, but he looked like a college student barely over twenty on spring break.
He wore a Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, covered in an ostentatious pattern of yellow pineapples.
He had on light pink shorts, revealing his smooth calves, and a pair of sockless loafers.
A pair of enormous Gucci sunglasses hid most of his face.
