The elevator takes me down through a building that’s mostly dark now, the cleaning crew a couple of floors below, the hum of the HVAC the only thing filling the corridors. The parking garage is empty except for my car and two others. I slide into the driver’s seat and sit with my hands on the wheel for a second before I turn the key.
The engine wakes up quietly. I pull out.
I tell myself I’m going home.
The city goes past the window in long ribbons of taillights. My hands make the turns out of muscle memory while my head runs the Nico file backward—who sanctioned the stop, which judge it will land in front of, which of his associates will flip fastest if the prosecutor is any good.
Then I take a left.
Home is right.
Where are you going?
I don’t answer the question. I drive.
The blocks get older. The buildings get shorter. The streetlights are the sodium kind that turn everything the wrong color. I turn off the main road and into a grid of five- and six-story walk-ups, and I don’t check the GPS because I don’t need to. I read the page in her file. Once. That was enough.
Fourth floor. Corner unit. Fire escape on the east wall of the building. One front door, no doorman, no camera on the lobby. Back alley narrow enough that a man has to turn sideways to make it past the dumpster.
I memorized all of that the day Lorenzo handed me the file.
In case,I told myself then.Might come in handy.
In case of what?
I pull over three buildings down on the opposite side of the street. Kill the engine. Kill the headlights. Slide down a little in the seat, not enough to look like I’m hiding, but enough that the streetlight over the cross street doesn’t catch my face.
The block is quiet. A bodega sits on the corner with its shutter half-down. A couple of kids are hanging out across the way, hoods up, not doing anything. A window on the third floor of the building next to hers glows blue from a television. Somewhere down the street, a dog is trying to get someone’s attention.
Her apartment is dark.
She’s still en route, then. Traffic coming out of the financial district at this hour is a nightmare; the cab would have taken the bridge and come around.
I don’t know why I’m here.
That’s a lie. I know why I’m here. I’m here because I put her in a cab half an hour ago with Nico’s men somewhere in this city, and because a file just landed on my desk that says Nico is actively creating problems for me, and because her apartment has no doorman. Because the last time Nico sent men for her I wasn’t there until the last ten seconds before she got hurt.
I’m here becausemy apartment, not yourswas the wrong answer and I didn’t push.
So, I’m pushing now. Quietly. From across the street. Like a lunatic.
A cab glides up the street and eases to a stop in front of her building, brake lights bleeding red across the rain-dark pavement. The back door swings open and she steps out. I find myself watching her differently than I ever have.
She looks worn down. She says something to the driver—probably thanks, because she would—and lingers on the curb until the cab pulls off so she doesn’t have to step into the street.
Then she glances over her shoulder. Not at me, not at anything in particular. Just a quick sweep. No class teaches that. Life does, and the lesson was recent. Yeah—that lands on me.
She heads inside. Fumbles with her keys for a second, then gets it and slips in. Through the vestibule glass, I catch her shadow moving. A light flicks on upstairs. Fourth floor, corner unit. It’s warm, soft lamp light—not the harsh overhead kind. I can see the edge of a curtain, but not her.
She’s home.
Time to go.
I reach for the ignition—but movement flickers in my peripheral vision just before my brain catches up. Two cars back from where the cab stopped, there’s a sedan I didn’t bother clocking earlier. Dark. Not empty.
The driver’s door opens slowly. A man steps out.
Heavy jacket for the weather. Cap pulled low, doing exactly what it’s meant to do—hide more than it shows. He doesn’t shut the door all the way, just nudges it, leaving it barely latched, hand resting there a second too long.
