Kyle leaned against the railing of a pedestrian bridge overlooking the Thames. The water was grey, the sky was grey, but somehow London still felt alive. He had been here less than two days, and already the city had started to grow on him.
Part of that is Tony.
Anthony—no, Tony now. The man had insisted on the nickname after breakfast. "You're not a client anymore. You're a friend. Call me Tony."
Kyle smiled at the memory, then his expression hardened.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. Isabeau. He hadn't spoken to her since the meeting at Marcello's estate. She had returned to France—or so everyone assumed.
But Kyle had a feeling that she would stay a little longer because of her association with Cleopatra.
"She's too curious to just go home."
He pressed call.
The line rang once, twice, three times.
"She's not going to pick—"
[[Kyle.]]
Her voice was crisp, accented, guarded. She had picked up on the fourth ring.
