The private room at Hotel Lafayette was dimly lit, shadows curling around the gold-and-black furniture like whispers in the dark. Collins sat with a calm smirk, his fingers leisurely drumming the mahogany table as he watched Isabella Richard’s diamond-studded fingers wrap around her wine glass. She hadn't spoken much, only given him a piercing stare since he walked in.

He liked it that way.

Finally, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a sleek black recorder. He placed it on the table with a casual clink, tapping it once. “Play,” he said with a wink.

“I’ve got something better than I promised, Isabella,” Collins said, a glint of pride in...