Kyle stepped out of The Lanesborough and into the London morning.
The air was crisp, damp in that way only England could manage. He buttoned his jacket and turned toward the street, already running through his mental checklist.
"Find Angelica. But first—business. Pemberton Productions. The BBC collaboration. That's why I'm really here."
Then he stopped dead in his tracks.
Parked at the curb was a car. Not just any car. Something low, wide, and the color of deep burgundy. The leather interior was cream, the wheels gleamed like mirrors. It wasn't flashy in the way a Lamborghini was flashy—it was classy. Expensive in a way that whispered instead of shouted.
It was a 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO.
"The hell? Is he some bigshot?"
Sitting behind the wheel, one elbow resting on the door frame, was Anthony.
Grey hair slicked back with his wrinkled face relaxed. He looked like he belonged there.
Anthony spotted Kyle and broke into a wide grin. He raised a hand.
