The flight across the North Atlantic was sixteen thousand feet above a sheet of midnight ice, carried inside the pressurized silence of a Gulfstream G650.
In the forward cabin, the ambient lights were dimmed to a deep, cobalt blue. Maya Lin was asleep in one of the cream leather reclining armchairs, her noise-canceling headphones resting around her neck.
I sat at the primary executive conference table near the wing, my laptop illuminating the raw architectural schematics of the Royal Exchange on Threadneedle Street. My fingers moved across the trackpad with rhythmic, mechanical precision, cross-referencing European Central Bank liquidity flows against our new London server array in Mayfair.
Across from me sat Enzo.
He wore a soft black cashmere sweater, his sleeves pushed up to his elb
