The black envelope felt as heavy as a tombstone in my hand. I stared at the high-definition gloss of the photograph—the way the morning light in Astoria hit the familiar, chipped neon sign of the Silver Star. My sister, Adriana, stood there, a hollow-eyed ghost in a white silk dress that was a cruel mockery of the Vane family's opulence. She looked like a doll that had been discarded and then reassembled by a madman. In her hand, she didn't hold a toy or a book; she held a lighter, the small flame flickering against the backdrop of our father's livelihood.
"Reid, we have to go. *Now*," I choked out. The air in the boardroom, which had felt like a triumph only seconds ago, was suddenly thick with the metallic tang of impending disaster.
