The Plaza Hotel's Oak Room has been the setting for countless power dinners, billion-dollar deals, and civilized declarations of war. Tonight, it would host something far more dangerous—a conversation between a predator and his chosen prey.
I sat alone at a corner table, my back to the wall, watching the entrance through the reflection in the dark windows. The restaurant buzzed with the quiet energy of Manhattan's elite conducting business over wine and artfully arranged proteins. None of them knew they were dining next to a battlefield.
Damian arrived precisely at seven, because of course he did. He moved through the restaurant with the fluid confidence of someone completely comfortable in expensive surroundings. His suit was impeccable—midnight blue with subtle pinstripes that probably
