I waited until midnight to make the call.
The penthouse was silent. The guards were on rotation outside. I was alone in a bedroom that belonged to no one, holding a phone that had only one contact, and making a decision that would either save me or destroy me.
I pressed the number.
Michael Torres answered on the second ring like he'd been waiting for this call. Like he'd known the exact moment I would have gathered enough courage to reach out.
"You have a question," he said. Not asking. Stating.
"How do I understand this world without becoming a target?" I asked.
"Tomorrow. Meridian Coffee. Seventy-fifth and Madison. Two PM."
He hung up.
The coffee shop was exactly what I expected. Small enough to be intimate. Far enough from Moretti territory that we wouldn't accidentally run into anyone who mattered. Michael was already there when I arrived, sitting in a corner booth with two cups of coffee and a leather folder.
