When the meeting finally ended, the men rose with the smooth confidence of people accustomed to expensive rooms and hidden arrangements.
Arthur Castiglione shook hands, smiled too widely, and congratulated himself on what he believed had been a successful evening. His advisors gathered their folders. Security moved toward the door.
One by one, they left.
Only Lorenzo Costa remained seated.
Genevieve did not move.
She knew better than to flee too early. Fear attracts attention. Panic confirms guilt. So she stayed exactly where she was, her posture calm, her breathing measured.
At last, Costa stood.
His movement was slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial. He crossed the room toward her, his shadow stretching over the marble floor.
He stopped close enough that she could see the thin scar near his left eye.
Then he spoke.
“That dialect,” he said quietly, “is not taught in universities. It is not found in books.”
His eyes darkened.
“It is a language of ghosts.”