Grace's POV
The gun under the coffee table was new.
Grace noticed it while pretending to read. She'd learned in three weeks that noticing things without appearing to notice was the only skill that mattered in this place. The black metal peeked out from under a folded newspaper like someone had forgotten to hide it. Nobody forgot in the Moretti penthouse. Which meant someone wanted her to know it was there.
A threat or a promise. She still couldn't tell the difference.
She was turning a page of her book when she heard Vincent's voice drift down the hallway. Not the polite voice he used around her. The real voice. The one that gave orders.
Grace stayed still.
Vincent was in his study with someone. The door was supposed to be closed but it wasn't quite. Just enough space for sound to slip through. She'd noticed that too. Everything in this place was a test about what you paid attention to and what you pretended not to see.
