The Beginning of the End

(Luke Linderman’s POV)

It had been two days since Julia was taken into custody. Forty-eight uneasy hours of meticulously maintained quietness, broken only by updates given at regular intervals and the echo of failed damage control.

I had left the guesthouse near the New York–Massachusetts border the morning after her arrest. It had served its purpose which was privacy, distance, and deniability.

Now I was back in Connecticut, standing by the tall, arched window of my white mansion’s study, watching the clouds gather in a strangely mesmerizing formation, as if the sky itself was pointing accusatory fingers at me.

The mansion was unusually quiet. No soft jazz or blues drifting through the hallways, no idle chatter from the staff or my bodyguards. Just a silence dense enough to feel like the aftermath of a mission gone wrong.

I turned away from the window and downed the last of my brandy. Bitter and hot—fitting, in every sense.

Pedro had remained in New York, doing his best to right his w