The morning sun poured through the massive, arched windows of Le Jardin d'Hiver, an ultra-exclusive, invite-only café nestled deep in the Upper East Side. It was the kind of establishment where a single croissant cost thirty dollars, and the waitstaff looked like they moonlighted as runway models.
The glass doors opened, and an operative in a sharp black suit wheeled a woman into the sunlit room.
If Diana Sinclair was attempting to keep a low profile, she had definitely failed.
She was draped in a pristine camel-hair coat, her dark hair entirely concealed by a vintage Hermès silk scarf tied tightly under her chin. A pair of massive, jet-black Jackie O sunglasses obscured half her face, leaving only her signature red lipstick visible.
She scanned the room from behind her dark lenses.
She spotted her target almost immediately.
Seated gracefully at a secluded table in the center of the café was Vittoria Rossi.
