I give her a flat stare. "I’m looking for whoever sent the bomb."
She's quiet for a moment. "Fair enough. What do you know so far?"
"That someone inside this building has been feeding money to the people who blew up my entrance."
"What else?"
I consider. “They're patient. Organized. Clever. And they know our systems."
She doesn't say anything for a moment. Then asks, "Can I see it?"
I turn the secondary monitor toward her so she can see it from the day bed.
She looks at it — the columns of numbers, the timestamps, the routing. Her left hand comes up and touches the edge of the blanket. The same gesture she uses when she's about to reach for a pencil.
"It looks like music," she says.
"It looks like fraud."
"Same thing. Rhythm, pattern, repetition." She tilts her head slightly. "The person who built this had time."
"Yes."
"They weren't scared of being caught."
"They should be."
She resettles against the pillow, and I turn the monitor back. The room holds the sound of the building for a while — the low hum of the ventilation, the distant clatter of kitchen prep running below.
"You should eat something," she says, eventually.
"I'm fine."
"Logan." Her voice is mild. "That's what I said an hour ago and you spent ten minutes telling me about ibuprofen and irritated stomach lining."
I don't answer. I go back to the access log.
But I call down for breakfast for two.
At half past ten, Nico knocks.
"Come in."
He enters, and a step behind him is someone I wasn't expecting to look like that.
She's small — five-foot-five at a generous estimate, soft blonde waves, dressed in something that belongs at a Sunday brunch rather than a war room. Hazel eyes that move around the room and show everything they're thinking: the screens, the files, the day bed, the woman on it, back to me. Fine bones. Honestly, she looks more like a princess than a warrior, but I know better than to make snap judgements about Rosetti women. After all, I’ve met Sofia Rosetti.
Juliet Price scans the room before she scans me. Not anxiously — methodically. She's done it before. I file this.
Twenty-one years old. Sent by people who have been doing this for generations. Help and surveillance both — that's what the Rosettis sent. The expertise is genuine; I need someone who can read gem transactions in a language Andrei didn't speak. But Juliet Price will carry an answer back to New York about whether the transition holds, whether Logan Cruz can keep Jorge Delgado's empire running without Jorge Delgado's weight behind it.
I accept both. If the Rosettis want to watch over my shoulder, let them.
Her grip, when I extend my hand, is firm.
"Thank you for having me," Juliet says. Her voice is warm, slightly careful. "I know the timing is—" She glances at Wren, at the bandage at her temple. "I'm sorry about what happened."
"Don't apologize for things that aren't yours," I say.
