Alexander Kane

The war-room was a tomb of glass and steel, monitors bleeding red with alerts: NYPD chatter, hacked gala feeds, Victor’s smug face frozen on a loop. Elena stood at the center, blood crusted on her jeans from the rooftop, eyes burning with a vengeance that made my chest ache. Marco hovered by the drone station, hoodie torn, knuckles raw, his sixteen-year-old frame vibrating with guilt and defiance. Sofia was in surgery, medevac chopper touching down at Mount Sinai, her blood ...