The return to the 102nd floor was marked by a suffocating silence. The sun had climbed higher, casting long, sharp blades of light across the floors of the executive suite, but the warmth of the day didn't seem to penetrate the glass.
Malcolm Ford walked into the center of the room, his presence once again filling the space with a heavy, magnetic weight. He didn't look like a man who had been at death's door an hour ago. But his brow was furrowed, a permanent line of irritation etched between his eyes. He stood by the massive floor-to-ceiling window, his back to the room, staring out at the city as if he could see the invisible threads of the conspiracy weaving around him.
On the leather sofa, Luca sat up slowly.
