Max Hastings leaned against the rain-streaked window, watching the city blur into an abstract canvas of neon lights and dark alleys. The skyline, jagged and ominous, loomed over the streets like a silent sentinel. It had been two weeks since they'd taken down Victor Sloane, but the aftershocks of his downfall rippled through the underworld. Max's instincts told him that the city's silence was the calm before another storm.
Victoria Thorne sat across from him, nursing a glass of bourbon. The warm light from the desk lamp cast a golden hue over her features, but her eyes held a steely resolve. "You're still thinking about it, aren't you?"
Max nodded, exhaling a long plume of smoke. "Sloane's gone, but the rot goes deeper. Crane's empire didn't crumble overnight. Someone's out there, picking up the pieces."
A knock on the door interrupted their brooding silence. Max's hand instinctively went to his gun. Victoria stood, her eyes narrowing. "Who is it?"
