It was Carter. He was standing in a bleak, fluorescent-lit prison yard, wearing ill-fitting neon orange. He looked gaunt, terrified, and profoundly aged. The man who had charmed his way into my life, who had so casually calculated my death for a paycheck, was now destitute, forgotten, and serving life without the possibility of parole. According to the attached warden’s report, Carter spent twenty-three hours a day in solitary confinement, terrified of the general population because of the bounty placed on his head by the very cartel he tried to pay off.
I stared at the photo, waiting for the familiar spike of adrenaline, the phantom sting of the icy wind. But I felt absolutely nothing. No anger, no fear, not even pity. He was simply a ghost from a life that no longer belonged to me.
“We built our own warmth,” I whispered to the empty room, closing the file with a decisive snap.
I walked over to the large bay window, looking out over the glittering New York skyline. We had survived the fall. We had claimed the empire.
As I turned away from the window to head to bed, my private assistant knocked softly on the heavy oak door. She stepped in, looking slightly confused, holding a pristine, sealed black envelope.
read more in next page
