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soir,” Lorenzo said.
    He’d made sure the potatoes were hot. Samantha returned his smile. “ Merci beaucoup .” The night before, her fries had arrived barely warm and she’d sent them back to the kitchen. She continued in French. “I really appreciate the effort.”
    “Charles, should we try to send again?” Eric asked.
    “Give it a minute,” Samantha said. “If I send two emails, I’ll get questions regarding which attachment is the one to look at.”
    Lorenzo efficiently floated a white tablecloth on the table, and set napkins and silverware. Gleaming silver domes covered their plates. The aroma of fresh baked bread and roasted meats filled the room.
    Working with Morgan had made her see the benefit of having an official end of the workday, and marking it with a nice dinner. She was determined to keep the tradition going, so when they’d returned from court at 6:30, she gave the team a fifteen-minute break to change into comfortable clothes and make personal calls. She’d taken out her contact lenses and put on glasses, slipped into jeans and ballet flats, and pulled a black cashmere cardigan over her white dress shirt. Then it had been back to work. It was late for dinner, but given the upheaval caused by Morgan’s death, she was glad she’d been able to send the memo and end their workday before midnight. Besides, their bodies were still operating in the Eastern time zone. It didn’t feel nearly as late as it actually was.
    “This is ridiculous. Damn email still hasn’t gone through.” Eric plopped onto the couch, lifting his laptop, and clicking at keys. “We’re working on the most important international tribunal ever convened, and the network is less sophisticated than something from the 1990’s.”
    “Sophistication is what slowed it,” Samantha answered. “State of the art firewalls, encryption devices, and filters make it secure and unhackable and for that, we all should be grateful. Otherwise we’d be slipping paper memos under the doors of the judges each evening. Absolutely that would be a job for someone other than first chair.” She gave Eric a pointed look and a smile, indicating the job would be his, not hers.
    Knock. Knock .
    The rap of hard knuckles fueled by a powerful arm on solid wood resonated through the room, stealing any laughter from her joke.
    “Has to be Black Raven. Marshals wouldn’t have let anyone else up,” Charles frowned. “They’re early.”
    Black Raven wasn’t supposed to arrive until 11:15, and the transport to their next hotel was to occur shortly thereafter, assuming it was going to occur that evening. Eric, Charles, and Abe exchanged a glance, then their attention turned to her. She had explained what Black Raven-style protection entailed, and their eyes revealed more than a bit of unease. She didn’t blame them.
    Knock. Knock.
    The solid sound, coupled with the early arrival of the security team, when the security company normally worked with the precision of a Swiss timepiece, sent a shudder of sudden uncertainty through her.
    “One minute,” she called, adjusting her eyeglasses as she stared at the computer screen. Whoever was on the other side of the door would have to wait until the email went through, just like the rest of them. Having a private security company was not her choice, and the agents would have to learn they weren’t going to interfere with work.
    Samantha had encountered few people as stubborn as she, who chose a course of action and followed it as though it was chiseled in granite. Her grandfather was one of those people. To the rest of the world, he was Samuel Dixon, the ballsy, eccentric leader of multiple Fortune 500 companies. Within minutes of Morgan’s death, her grandfather had called. In his typical controlling fashion, he’d steamrolled her protests as he insisted Samantha and the rest of the Amicus team from the United States have their own security detail.
    It didn’t matter to her grandfather that there was