Chapter 37 Confessions Over Cognac

• The night outside Antoine’s penthouse was soaked in rain. Paris glittered below in streaks of gold and gray — the kind of melancholy beauty that fit his mood too well. He stood by the wide window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of amber cognac. The storm’s reflection rippled across his face.
• Behind him, Jonas poured himself a glass too, though he wasn’t much of a drinker. The silence stretched;the sort that hums when two men carry too much between them.
• “You’ve been quiet all night,” Jonas said finally, leaning against the marble counter. “That’s never a good sign with you.”