Silas Cross was still standing before the windows in the study room.
The city glittered below him, a sprawling circuit board of lights and lives he owned.
He brought out the lighter for the cigarettes in his pockets.
The report from Julian, the broken, terrified confession, had changed the entire equation.
Miles Vane.
The son of Alaric and Mira Vane.
The ghost haunting his empire was not a rival.
It was a loose end.
And it was a priceless, one-of-a-kind asset walking around in the body of a teenage boy.
His fury had cooled, leaving behind the chillingly calm logic of a corporate takeover.
The objective was no longer termination.
It was acquisition.
A quiet sound announced the arrival of his senior aide.
The man entered the room with the silent, practiced invisibility of a shadow.
"Sir," the aide said, his voice a low murmur.
Silas turned slowly, a thin, predatory smile on his lips that did not reach his cold, gray eyes.
