Semua Bab DIRTY ANGELS: Bab 21 - Bab 27

Marvin Vale boarded the jet with the slight irritation of a man doing something he disliked because the world required it of him.Flying unsettled him. Always had. Not because of fear, exactly, Marvin didn’t fear much, but because altitude stripped away control. Metal, air, and physics decided your fate up there. Still, the jet was his, the pilots were vetted, the route scrutinized. Control was relative.The cabin door fastened with a muted thud. It was styled just to his taste, with silence engineered for comfort. His assistant Waylon stood immediately, immaculate as ever, briefcase already in hand.“Did you secure the footage I asked for?” Marvin said, shrugging out of his coat.“Yes,” Waylon answered smoothly. “Encrypted. Multiple backups. Stored off-site as well.”“Good.” Marvin loosened his cufflinks and sank into the wide seat by the window.“Has Kahn been paid?”“She has. In full. She said it was the best assignment she’s ever been given.”Marvin smiled, faint and knowing.“I c

The black mask pressed to Marvin's face like a second skin, the edges cool to his temples, the eye slits narrowing the world to slits of shadow and candlelight.’Waylon stood at a heavy table, a silver tray laden with assorted chemicals, to enhance tonight's events. All designed to help him keep up in every way.Beneath the dense cloak, he experienced the familiar buzz racing through his veins, sharpening every sensation while dulling the edges of doubt.The elite estate loomed around him, isolated on acres of private land where no one came uninvited. Tonight, no one left unmarked.“It is nearly time,” Waylon said neutrally.Marvin nodded, taking one last hit before he found himself standing on the raised platform at the far end of the grand hall. Above it towered a statue, thirty feet high, an ancient faceless god, hewn from black marble and studded with rare gems, its form both masculine and feminine, androgynous. The eyes were hollowed out sockets that appeared to watch over all.

Marvin and Waylon arrived at the late night meeting just before nine. This mansion screamed old money and power.Upon entering, they surrendered their devices. They were then led down a long corridor lined with portraits no museum would ever see: men in powdered wigs, men in frock coats, men in modern suits whose eyes followed you. All bore the same sharp cheekbones, the same cold certainty.The dining room was small by the standards of the first mansion, only a long mahogany table, twelve chairs, and one candelabrum burning low.Four men waited. At the head sat Otto Rotegarde, ninety-three years old, spine straight as a blade despite the walking stick of ebony and silver beside him. His skin was parchment stretched over bone, but his eyes, black, unblinking, held the weight of centuries. To his right and left sat his grandsons: Nathaniel, managing director of three central banks no one outside this room acknowledged existed; Jakob, the quiet architect of resource wars disguised as h

Lila went downstairs to use Lorenzo’s car.The driver-side window was shattered, damn she forgot about that.She stared at it for a long moment. Considered calling a glazier.Then she scoffed softly.No. Let him deal with his own consequences.She called a cab and walked outside.Dirty Angels was quiet this early, still shaking off the night before. A few early regulars and a couple of staff moved behind the bar. No sign of Ethan on the floor yet.Marisol headed straight for the back, toward the room Ethan had casually marked as her office. On the way, she spotted Remy behind the bar. The same short skirt. The same barely-there top. Same smug sway as she bent to grab glasses.Still dressed like a hoe, Marisol thought coolly.She stepped into her would be office and surveyed the mess. Boxes half-unpacked. Papers everywhere. Old junk that clearly hadn’t been cleared out for her arrival. Her jaw tightened.She turned on her heel and walked back out.“Remy,” she called.Remy looked up, un