Her real age, Sebastian had learned, was sixty-two, although her Wikipedia profile had it listed as fifty—and she could easily pass for fifty, maybe even for late forties. Based on what he could see, she didn’t appear to have had cosmetic work done, which didn’t come as much of a surprise. She filled out the black V-neck hospital smock and matching pants quite nicely, still had the thick black hair, perfect jawline, full lips, and fiery green eyes that had made her People magazine’s Most Beautiful Whatever for several years running, even when she turned forty-two. Well, fifty-four, in all honesty.

Sebastian stood on the other side of the one-way mirror, drinking his coffee and watching her pace across the room, this woman who had played the starring role in many of his teenage masturbatory fantasies. He didn’t normally hang around this long, evaluating his clients; he didn’t have time for that, had a number of other places he was actively needed. The reason he was watching her had more to do with the fact that she reminded him of a woman he had dated a long time ago and still remembered fondly. Perhaps too fondly, he thought. Ava Martinez. She had been the great love of his life.

Still was, really.

His business partner, and the owner of the dermatology and laser center, Dr. Maya Dawson, entered the hidden chamber off her private office. Her expression was stern—always was, reminding him of the Catholic nuns from his youth, dour-faced, humorless women. She didn’t dress like one, though—nuns didn’t favor Armani business wear—and what he enjoyed about this petite middle-aged woman with brown eyes and a maternal-looking bob hairstyle was the sense of comfort and serenity she radiated, Maya the kind of person who could solve all your problems. Nothing ever seemed to rattle her.

But something had rattled her this morning. He could see it in her face, the way she folded her hands behind her back and straightened, as if bracing for an argument.

“Good,” she said. “You’re still here.”

Sebastian always showed up on transfusion days. His clients paid a ridiculous premium for his product and he wanted to make sure everything ran smoothly. It was more out of habit now than necessity. He rarely encountered a problem, because he ran a tight operation but also because he chose his people well.

“Why isn’t she sedated?” Sebastian asked, nodding to Isabella Flores.

“She is,” Dawson replied wearily. “That’s her, sedated.”

That took Sebastian by surprise. When clients were picked up at their homes, before dawn, they were given anesthetic injections. Once they were out, they were loaded into a van and transported here, where they would be brought out of sedation and given breakfast before the transfusion, which took the better part of the day. They’d spend the night, the staff monitoring for any side effects, and once Dawson pronounced them good to go, they would be sedated again, loaded back into the van, and driven home, where they would wake up in their own beds, having no idea where they’d been. Phones and other electronic devices were left at home, and the clients were given special clothing to wear on the morning of their transfusion, Sebastian always concerned about an undercover cop or Fed posing as a client, wearing a hidden camera, microphone, or tracking device inside a belt or a button, the sole of a shoe. It had happened to his main competitors, the Armenians, too many times.