The night rain outside the cast-iron gallery on Greene Street in SoHo drummed gently against the historical multi-paned windows, washing the cobblestones in soft, reflective silver. Inside the private upper residence, away from the bodyguards, the political galas, and the bustling maritime terminals, the world was silent save for the crackle of seasoned hickory logs in the small brick fireplace and the quiet strains of Chopin's Nocturnes playing on the…
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