The Russell estate bloomed with decadence and the smell of money.
Avery adjusted the cuffs of his dark suit as they stepped through the marble atrium and into the sweeping hall lit by a thousand chandelier crystals. Polished wood floors, golden paneling, the sharp cut of tuxedos and silk gowns gliding across the space like wraiths—it was the kind of old-world aristocracy he'd always loathed. Everything gleamed, even the people.
Beside him, Sloane's gait was sharp and even, despite the cane and prosthetic. His expression unreadable beneath the dark mask that covered the left side of his face.
Heads turned as they entered.
They always did.
Not because of Avery—though his name still carried weight—but because of the man beside him.
Sloane Delaney. Scarred, masked, impossibly poised.
And very much not supposed to be alive.
