In front of the towering hotel, a convoy of sleek black sedans pulled up, blocking the entrance.
As one of the men opened the car door, a tall, sharp-featured man stepped out, bending slightly as he emerged. His voice was cold. "What floor?"
"Twenty-seven."
Without another word, Dante Flagg strode inside.
At the reception desk, the staff looked on nervously as the striking young man, followed by a swarm of suited men, entered like a mob boss arriving to settle a score. The scene sent a shiver down their spines.
Dante's eyes remained fixed on the elevator panel as the numbers climbed. His expression was unreadable, cold.
As they waited, one of the men's phones rang. He answered, then glanced at Dante before stepping forward and handing him the phone.
"It's the chairman," he said quietly.
Dante paused for a moment before realizing who it was. He gave a sharp, mirthless laugh and accepted the call, his face devoid of emotion.
