I grabbed a cup of free coffee from the lobby on my way out, bitter and scalding, exactly what I needed.
The car was waiting at the curb. Same driver as yesterday. He glanced at me in the rearview mirror as I climbed in.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
"Where to?"
"Dominion Hall."
His eyebrow went up. Just slightly. Then he nodded and pulled away from the curb without another word.
We drove in silence, the city waking up around us. Joggers on the sidewalks. Early risers with dogs. The kind of peaceful morning that felt like it belonged to someone else's life.
When we pulled up to the gates, they opened without the driver touching anything.
He glanced back at me again, something curious in his expression, but he kept his mouth shut.
Smart man.
Silas was waiting at the front door.
Of course, he was.
He stood there with his hands in his pockets, expression calm, like he'd known exactly when I'd arrive.
"You eat yet?" he asked as I climbed out of the cab.
"No."
"Good. Come on."
I followed him inside, through the familiar entryway with the snake tank, down hallways I was starting to recognize, until we reached the kitchen.
And stopped.
The spread was insane.
Not breakfast. A feast.
Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Sausage. Hash browns. Pancakes stacked high. Fresh fruit. Pastries that looked like they'd been made by someone who gave a damn. Coffee in a carafe that smelled better than anything I'd ever brewed myself.
"Jesus," I muttered.
A woman stood near the stove, older, hair pulled back, apron tied around her waist. She looked up and smiled—warm, genuine, the kind of smile that made you think of grandmothers and Sunday dinners.
"You must be Micah," she said. "I'm Delphine. Help yourself."
I glanced at Silas. "You feeding an army?"
Delphine laughed. "Most days, yes."
But no army appeared.
Just me, loading up a plate with more food than I'd eaten in a week, following Silas back outside to a patio that stretched out like it had been designed for royalty.
The patio was massive. Bigger than the ranch house I'd grown up in. Stone flooring. Comfortable furniture. A view of the lawn sloping down toward the water, where the two black yachts sat moored like they were waiting for orders.
