THOMAS COLE'S POV
The drive back to the Saint Regis felt like a descent into a fever dream. Miller's words were a rhythmic chant in my head: Four billion dollars.
Without a judge's signature. Gone rogue. Nate hadn't just crossed the line; he'd incinerated it. He'd handed Adrian the keys to the kingdom, and in return, Adrian had handed him a match. But as the hotel's valet took my keys, I wasn't thinking about the law. I was thinking about the fact that Internal Affairs was already on my tail. The clock wasn't just ticking for Nate; it was ticking for the entire Cole legacy.
I reached Room 412 and didn't bother knocking. I turned the handle; it was unlocked, a silent invitation. The room was different now, and theavy curtains were open, bathing the suite in the harsh, midday glare of a D.C. winter. The bed was made, the sheets crisp and anonymous, as if the heat of the night before had been scrubbed away by a professional cleaning crew.
