The building's front entrance was glass, tinted dark enough that she couldn't see inside. No receptionist visible. No security guard. Just a door and a small placard beside it, brushed metal, with a single line of text:
Suite 401. Please proceed to the elevator.
She pushed through the door.
The lobby was clean and empty, all white walls and polished floors. An elevator waited at the far end, doors already open, as if it had been expecting her.
She walked toward it.
The weight of the gun was a comfort against her ribs. The anger was still there, banked but burning. And beneath it, something else—something that might have been fear, or might have been the exhausted edge of hope.
She stepped into the elevator.
The doors closed behind her, and she began to rise.
CHAPTER 9
The elevator doors opened to silence, and Serafina stepped out into a corridor as anonymous as the lobby below—pale walls, neutral carpet, recessed lighting that cast no shadows. There were no signs, no directories, no indication of what happened on this floor or any other.
Suite 401 was at the end of the hall.
She walked toward it, her footsteps muffled by the carpet, her hand brushing the familiar weight beneath her jacket. No one had stopped her downstairs. There had been no security checkpoint, no metal detector, no bored guard asking to see inside her bag.
That was wrong.
Any legitimate operation would have security. Any company offering ten thousand dollars to strangers who answered a cryptic ad would, at minimum, want to know if those strangers were armed.
She filed it away and kept walking.
The door to 401 was unlocked. She pushed it open and stepped inside.
The office was modern, minimalist, quietly expensive. Clean lines, neutral palette, the kind of furniture that cost more than her yearly salary but didn't advertise it. A single desk of pale wood, two chairs upholstered in something soft and gray, floor-to-ceiling windows with blinds half-drawn, filtering the morning light into gentle slats across the floor. Along the left wall, a long panel of frosted glass separated the office from an adjacent room—dark shapes barely visible beyond it, too indistinct to read.
There was no receptionist, no waiting area, no other staff visible.
Just one woman, standing near the window, turning as Serafina entered.
Serafina's instincts catalogued her immediately. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Dark hair, well-cut, falling just past her shoulders. Tailored shirt in crisp white, pants in charcoal that fit like they'd been made for her—because they probably had. Her posture was easy, confident, the kind of stillness that came from knowing exactly where you stood in a room and not needing to prove it.
She looked like money. Old money or new money, Serafina couldn't tell, but definitely money. Corporate, polished, in control.
And completely alone in an empty office with no visible security, interviewing strangers who'd answered an ad promising cash for an unspecified opportunity.
Something didn't add up.
She was tempted to leave right now, but desperation and the promise of money held her there.
"Detective Montecristo." The woman's voice was pleasant, carrying just a hint of warmth that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thank you for coming. Please, sit."
It wasn't a question, but it wasn't quite an order either. Something in between—an expectation, delivered with the quiet certainty of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
Serafina didn't sit. "You know my name."
"I know quite a bit about you." The woman gestured to one of the chairs. "That's rather the point."
Serafina held her ground for another moment, studying her. The woman didn't fidget, didn't fill the silence with pleasantries, didn't seem bothered by being assessed. She simply waited, composed, as if she had all the time in the world.
Serafina took the chair. She kept her posture open, her hands visible and close to her weapon. The woman sat across from her, one leg crossed over the other, unhurried.
