[Jake's POV]
The next evening, I arrived at Aurelia Bancroft's townhouse without a gun, without guards, and without the comforting illusion that either of those things would have made the room safer.
Her home stood on East Seventy-Third behind a black door polished so cleanly it reflected the streetlights like dark water. No sign. No obvious security. No visible cameras. That was how I knew the house was watched from every angle. People like Aurelia did not leave their safety to locks. They turned entire neighborhoods into soft cages and made everyone inside pretend they were only being polite.
A driver opened the door before I knocked.
"Mr. Hart," he said.
Not a question.
I stepped inside.
