The marble foyer of Veronica's Fifth Avenue residence was silent, save for the rhythmic, low clack of her heels on the stone floor. She had dismissed her driver at the corner, walked the final two blocks alone, and swept past the staff without acknowledging their respectful greetings. She didn't want conversation; she wanted silence and solitude to dissect the night's failure and calibrate her next, deadlier move.

She went straight to the private library on the third floor, a room lined with ...