IN the vast living room of Oswald’s mansion, the night pressed in through the tall windows, the shadows of the city flickering beyond the glass. The air was still, but inside the room, tension hummed like a second heartbeat.

Vincenzo sat with one ankle resting lazily over his knee, nursing a glass of brandy he hadn’t really touched. Nathan was on the opposite couch, his arm still wrapped with a light bandage beneath his shirt sleeve, the tablet he always carried set aside on the coffee table. Between them was Oswald, but he wasn’t seated. He stood at the window, half turned to them, staring into the dark outside as...