Chapter 5 - The Espresso and the Suit
Six miles away, in a soundproof, glass-walled private lounge overlooking the financial district, the ambient lighting was cold, bright, and clinical.
A man sat in a high-backed leather armchair, staring out at the rain-slicked skyscrapers of the city below. He wore an immaculate, bespoke Italian suit made of charcoal-black virgin wool, a crisp white silk shirt, and a dark, narrow tie tied in a flawless Windsor knot.
His face was terrifyingly familiar.
He had the exact same sharp jawline, the same narrow nose, and the same pale blue eyes as Richard, the petty manager of the Midnight Diner. But where Richard looked pathetic, cheap, and perpetually angry, this man radiated an aura of immense, quiet, and lethal wealth.
On the glass table beside him sat a porcelain cup of double espresso, dark as pitch, releasing a thin wisp of aromatic steam.
The man picked up the delicate porcelain handle with two long, manicured fingers. He brought the cup to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip without breaking his gaze from the rainy window.
A phone chimed quietly on the table. He touched a button on a sleek silver earpiece.
"Is it done?" the man asked. His voice was smooth, deep, and devoid of any human resonance.
"She made contact, Mr. Sterling," a voice answered through the earpiece. "She was seen at the diner on 4th Street. She spoke to the server."
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The man set his espresso cup down with a soft clink against the glass table. He leaned back, his eyes narrowing as a slow, predatory smile crept across his lips. He looked directly into the reflection of the glass wall—staring into his own cold eyes.
"Send the Cadillac tomorrow at four," he whispered.
