The heavy mahogany doors of her private suite swung shut behind her with a muffled, ominous click, sealing out the damp silence of the Black Rose corridors.
Arora stood in the entryway for a long, unmoving second, her dark wool coat still holding the biting chill of the rain-soaked night. The dim overhead sconces flickered softly against the dark wood paneling, casting long, razor-sharp shadows across the floorboards. Outside her high-arched windows, Chicago's skyline was a blurred portrait of smog and midnight fog.
Sleep was an absolute impossibility. Her pulse beat in her temples—a steady, rhythmic drumfire.
