Friday Evening.
Ryan compartmentalized the violence.
He closed the encrypted browser, wiped the terminal history, and shut the laptop. The digital ghosts he had just summoned to go against a mafia crew belonged in the dark.
Tonight belonged to the lights.
He stood in the center of his apartment, rolling his shoulders until the joints popped.
The dull ache in his ribs still flared, a parting gift from the alley, but he forced his breathing to remain slow and even.
He stripped out of his casual clothes, stepping into the hot spray of the shower until the faint, phantom smell of burlap and chemical solvent washed down the drain.
By six o'clock, he sat in the back of a hired black Maybach, the tires humming smoothly over the Manhattan asphalt. The interior smelled of rich, conditioned leather and ozone.
He checked his reflection in the tinted window. Dark charcoal suit. Crisp white shirt, no tie. The top two buttons left undone.
