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“I can see that,” I mumbled, settling for a box of fried rice, which my stomach thanked as soon as I took the first bite.

Arkane relaxed into the seat next to me, pointing at the cameras. “They’re coming in.”

I nodded, picking up a high-spec binocular from the table. Our floor was conventionally right opposite the HQ’s meeting room, which gave us a clear view of everything.

“Do you think it’s any use watching him anymore?”

Arkane shrugged. “Possibly not, but Timothy Walters is hiding something. He won’t slip because he knows he’s being watched, but still it’s worth a try.”

I had never seen Marcus Stormhold, the second-born of the Stormhold family, in person, but his face was plastered on the Twins Daily at least twice a week. Described as one of the smartest businessmen of the century, he was an idol to every Ivy League college kid graduating in finance.

And he looked the part in his sharp suit and even sharper facial structure. Unlike his eldest, he shared the same sandy-brown hair and green eyes as their father and was more than a few inches shorter than Arkane.

We both quietly watched the laptop playing the meeting in 4k with even clearer audio while I ate and Arkane sipped on water.

I still held onto the binoculars, sneaking a few glances at the men here and there, out of simple curiosity.

Except for the twinkling lights from the windows and computer screens, the floor we were on was dark, giving us a perfect view of everything. And so far, the meeting had led nowhere. It was random business and technical jargon that I didn’t even try to understand.

“Isn’t that your own building? Couldn’t we have gotten the next room or something?”

Arkane shook his head. “My presence would flag that we’re watching them.”

I frowned, but Timothy Walters already knew… Arkane didn’t want his brother to know.

“You don’t even want your brother to know that you’re spying.” I turned toward him with a frown. “You suspect him, too?”

“I suspect everyone,” Arkane simply said, his eyes never straying from the video.

My frown only deepened, but I didn’t say a word. So Timothy Walters was right about something. The traitor was someone very close to the family. But the question was, was it someone unrelated or someone from the head family itself? I wondered how Arkane felt about the answer to that question.

An hour later, the meeting ended with Timothy Walters and Marcus signing some papers in ink, some of which stained both their fingers, and they laughed like it was a regular occurrence for them. It was followed by Marcus handing him a small metal briefcase, possibly the package Timothy Walters came here for. Invictus. One of many of Arkane’s genius creations. They shook hands, and Marcus’s voice came through our speaker.

“I will see Mr. Walters out,” Marcus said and led Timothy out of the room.

Our screen switched to them walking through the hallways, making small talk that the camera audio couldn’t pick up, and the two men who came with Timothy Walters and another man who was probably Marcus’s assistant followed close behind.

Timothy Walters first entered the waiting car outside, his grip still tight on the shiny briefcase which he was to deliver at the Narrow Four Cross lane tonight. But for some reason, Marcus too joined him, along with the three men, and given their expressions and ease, it looked like wherever they were going, it was already agreed upon.

“Why is your brother going with him?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at the scene, the car now disappearing out of the driveway.

“I don’t know. Whatever it is, it wasn’t in Marcus’s program,” Arkane replied with a frown, already on his phone.

I stayed quiet while Arkane spoke to Mikhail, demanding a debrief of the situation, and from the rising tension in his voice, I could tell he didn’t like whatever was going on.

Arkane let out an exhale as his call finished. “A celebratory dinner. They just arrived at the Casa Carbone.”

“Isn’t that the Mancini’s family restaurant?” The Mancini family’s main source of income was from their infamous chain of upscale restaurants that the Uppers raved about. I’d heard people say it had months-long wait times just for a reservation. But that shouldn’t be hard for someone like Marcus, whose brother-in-law was the owner.

Arkane nodded. “But still, something seems off. I’ve sent Mikhail to keep a close eye on them. Looks like we have to handle Rose Ellen by ourselves.”

“Okay.”

“We still have hours to kill. What do you want to do?” Arkane asked, leaning back against the chair, hands folded behind his head.

“I think it’s best to get a head start,” I replied. “Rose Ellen could be a trap for you. The White Hand knows that he can’t directly kill you, so maybe he thought cleverly. They’ll be expecting you at midnight. I say we go early and book ourselves a room. Only…” I frowned, eyeing him, clad in his expensive suit and perfectly curated look. “I suggest you wear something else and cover up that pretty face with a hat or something.”

“Pretty face,” he said wryly under his breath as he gave me a look. But he agreed with my idea without much complaint.