The armor-plated Escalade glided through the slick, rain-dampened streets of Manhattan, the heavy chassis absorbing the imperfections of the asphalt.
Inside the cabin, the temperature was climate-controlled to the exact degree, but the air felt charged with a vibrating electric anticipation.
Ryan sat in the back, adjusting the cuffs of his bespoke midnight-black tuxedo.
The tailoring was flawless, gripping his shoulders and tapering sharply at the waist, projecting the unmistakable architecture of a man who owned the rooms he walked into.
He glanced to his right.
Zara Osei was looking out the tinted window, the passing streetlights washing rhythmically over her face.
She was a weapon of mass distraction.
She wore a backless, liquid-gold silk gown that clung to the sweeping curves of her hips and fell into a pooling train around her ankles. It wasn't loud.
