Mr Banks Office Demi Hawks -

Kestrel managed the phones. Her voice was a warm, hypnotic purr that could charm a client into signing anything. But if you called during a bad quarter, her tone would drop thirty degrees, and you’d hear the faint click-click-click of her talons tapping the receiver—a warning. She never raised her voice. She didn't have to. She simply leaned forward, and the shadow of wings fell across her desk.

There were three of them: Kestrel, Merel, and the oldest, Zayden. mr banks office demi hawks

The first time you saw one, you thought your eyes were playing tricks. They were women—sharp, immaculate, dressed in charcoal pencil skirts and silk blouses. But their eyes… their eyes were too large, the pupils flecked with gold. And their fingernails weren't acrylic. They were keratin. Curved. Black-tipped. When they moved, the air stirred with the scent of ozone and rain-washed pine. Kestrel managed the phones

Officially, they were his executive assistants. Unofficially, everyone called them the Demi-Hawks. She never raised her voice

Because here was the secret: Mr. Banks wasn't a venture capitalist. He was a broker. And his currency was regret .

When a deal went sour—when a founder sold out his partners, when a CEO cooked the books, when a politician broke a promise—Mr. Banks would visit. He'd pour two fingers of bourbon. He'd smile his thin, bloodless smile. And he'd say, "I don't want your money. I want the memory of what you did."

The sign on the frosted glass door read Banks & Associates, Private Acquisitions . But the employees had a different name for the twenty-third floor: The Aerie .