Julian Devano's presence at the penthouse threshold was like a lethal draft of midnight air. The man, who by all accounts should have been rotting in a federal black site, sat perched in a silver wheelchair, a jagged sneer marring a face map-marked with scars. His eyes, a clouded, murky grey—a corrupted reflection of Alaric's own—raked over Anna as if stripping prey bare.
Alaric stood like a statue, the pulse in his jaw the only sign of the storm within. His hand, concealed behind his back, already hovered over a trigger. "Julian. How are you out?"
"Money buys everything in this city, Alaric. You taught me that yourself with every filthy transaction you used to dismantle Silas," Julian laughed, a parched sound like sandpaper on stone. "And I'm not here for a social call. I've come for my birthright. Devano Corp... and every asset tethered to it."
