Chapter4

The taxi rattled across the Williamsburg Bridge, where steel suspension cables sliced the moon into fragments against the night sky. The apartment in Williamsburg was a converted red-brick factory, devoid of elevators and accessible only by a fire escape that smelled of rust and urban decay. As Isabella hauled her heavy suitcase up to the fifth floor, the NYU art students next door were in the throes of a deafening party. The bass from a subwoofer punched through the thin walls, shaking the floorboards, while the hallway air hung heavy with the scent of cheap weed and stale beer.

This three-hundred-square-foot studio had been her sanctuary for the past five years. The paint was peeling, the pipes groaned like dying beasts, and the drafty windows required duct tape to keep out the winter. She paid $2,500 a month for the privilege, enduring the nightmare of L-train weekend shutdowns. But it had one redeeming quality—the window faced the East River.

Isabella kicked off the blistering Nine West heels and walked barefoot to the glass.

Night had fully descended. Across the black velvet water, the Manhattan skyline glittered like a diamond necklace. The spire of the Empire State Building pulsed white; the Chrysler Building’s art deco crown gleamed with a cold, silver brilliance. It was the center of the world, the pinnacle of power, and the place that had just humiliated her.

She opened the buzzing, secondhand fridge and pulled out a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, pressing the cold aluminum against her feverish forehead.

Her phone vibrated. A text from Alex.

*"Isa, did you see that blue folder? I think I left it at the restaurant, or maybe you took it to organize? Call me back. It’s urgent."*

Isabella looked at the screen, a mockery of a smile touching her lips. She didn't reply. She tossed the phone onto the cheap Ikea sofa.

The wall clock ticked toward 11:59 PM.

One minute remaining.

Isabella went to the back of the closet and dragged out a dusty, black Rimowa safe. It was the only item she had brought from Europe five years ago that matched her true identity. She entered a complex code—the date of her mother’s final performance at La Scala in Milan.

*Click.*

The safe popped open. There was no cash inside, only an old-fashioned encrypted satellite phone and an emerald ring resting silently in a velvet box.

The moment the hour and minute hands merged at the number 12, the satellite phone rang.

The ringtone cut through the muffled thumping of the party next door—alien, sharp, and commanding. Isabella took a deep breath and answered.

"*Guten Abend, Fräulein Isabella.*" The voice on the other end was male, aged, and steady, carrying a thick Zurich-German accent.

"*Buonasera, Herr Müller.*" Isabella’s voice changed. She switched languages effortlessly, shedding the submissive assistant skin to reveal a tone of innate nobility and authority that flowed in her blood. "I believe the time has come."