The study was smaller than Alexander expected for someone who'd commanded a global shadow organization.
Book-lined walls, a mahogany desk positioned to overlook the ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows, leather furniture worn comfortable from years of use. It looked like a scholar's retreat, not a war room. But then, Eleanor had always preferred psychological warfare to physical violence.
She sat in a wing-backed chair by the window, backlit by the dying sunset that painted everything in shades of amber and crimson. No guards flanked her. No weapons in hand. Just an elderly woman in elegant clothing, silver hair swept back, posture still commanding despite her circumstances.
And on the table beside her—close enough to reach, far enough to be theatrical—a single pistol.
"Mother." Alexander's voice was controlled as he entered, Emily at his side, Julian a step behind. Marcus and his team remained in the hallway, weapons ready but respecting this moment as family business.
