The Delgado mansion didn't sleep either.
Even at three in the morning, the estate pulsed with quiet life — the hum of security systems, the whisper of air through the marble halls, the subtle, predatory stillness of a place that was always watching.
Mateo's car cut through the driveway's shadows like a knife. The guard at the gate recognized him instantly, buzzed him through without a word.
Inside the house, the scent of cedar and espresso hung faintly in the air. Somewhere upstairs, a clock chimed, each note echoing through the vastness like the ticking of something unseen.
He found Darren in the study.
The room glowed with the low amber light of a desk lamp, its reflection bending across the glass shelves and the neat lines of liquor bottles behind him. Darren stood by the window, half-hidden in silhouette, a glass of something dark in hand. The skyline burned behind him — the Strip's distant shimmer painting gold across his sharp profile.
He didn't turn when Mateo entered.
