Elisenda looked down. The firm’s logo was a lion, but it had worn down over a century. In the rain, under the flickering streetlamp, it did look like a cat.
The firm’s name was Campmany Advocats , etched in brass on a heavy oak door in the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona. To the outside world, it was a bastion of corporate law, handling mergers and real estate for the city’s elite. But to those who knew where to look, the name carried a different weight. It was a lighthouse for the damned.
For three hours, Elisenda made calls. Not to the police—some of them were on the payroll. Not to the press—too slow. She called a retired archivist, a hacker who owed her father a favor, and a nun who ran a safe house in the sewers of the Gothic Quarter.
She leaned forward. “No. I’m a Campmany . We’ve been alone for eighty-five years. It’s the only way we win.”
“My mother. Before they took her. She said find the door with the brass cat.”