The Maybach consumed Miami's art district like a phantom, ARIA's digital hands sculpting the wheel with the lethal grace of a bomb disposal expert. Every turn was a brushstroke, the car so silent it felt like we coasted on starlight. In the back, I adjusted my cape, felt the mask settle into my skin like a second face.
Armor for a different kind of war.
"Are you certain about this?" Madison murmured, her own reflection a distortion in the dark glass—Habsburg elegance meets executioner chic.
I felt the enhanced thrum beneath my suit; muscles coiled like spring steel. "Born for it, Madison. Six famished women, a cathedral of wine, and me walking in looking like sin made flesh. This isn't a meeting. It's an exorcism."
Amanda laughed from beside Madison. "He's not wrong. These women have been texting about tonight like it's the second coming of Christ."
"Coming is the operative word tonight," I grinned, teeth flashing in the gloom. "Lot of it. Repeatedly."
