Chapter 1
Eva
Themarblepillarinthe Grand Meridian's lobby felt cold against my spine, even through the stolen catering polo that hung loose on my frame. My stomach cramped—not the gentle complaint of missing breakfast, but the sharp, angry fist of two days without food. The infected cut on my palm throbbed in time with my heartbeat, hot and tight despite the antibiotics I'd blown my last eight dollars on yesterday. Worth it, though. Sepsis would kill me faster than hunger.
I scrolled through the cracked phone I'd found in a trash can behind the Starbucks on 34th. No service, obviously, but the screen still lit up, gave me something to stare at while I watched the afternoon rush of businessmen flow through the lobby like schools of expensive fish. The key to being invisible wasn't hiding—it was looking like you belonged somewhere else, like you were killing time before your shift started or waiting for your manager to text you back.
The catering company polo helped. Lifted it from a dry cleaner's delivery van last week, along with the black pants that were two sizes too big but stayed up with a belt made from a dog leash I'd found. My beat-up sneakers could pass for non-slip restaurant shoes if nobody looked too close. And nobody ever looked too close at service staff. We were moving furniture, nothing more.
I cataloged the men automatically, a survival habit ground into my bones. Wedding ring meant family photos in the wallet, kids' names he'd cry about if you played the guilt card right. But married men called cops faster, worried about explaining missing cash to wives. Guy in the expensive watch but cheap shoes? Credit cards were maxed, probably carrying minimum cash. The Bluetooth earpiece assholes never carried physical wallets anymore, everything on their phones behind biometric locks I couldn't crack.
Then I saw him.
Armani suit that had to cost more than most people's cars. Gold Rolex that caught the lobby's crystal chandelier light. Italian leather shoes that probably had their own insurance policy. Most importantly—he was drunk. Not sloppy drunk, not falling-down drunk, but that special executive afternoon drunk where they thought nobody could tell. The slight sway when he stopped walking. The too-careful way he pressed the elevator button. The way he squinted at his phone screen like the letters were being personally difficult.
Perfect.
I pushed off the pillar, timed my approach. Twenty feet to the elevator bank. He was texting, not paying attention to his surroundings. The elevator dinged—going up. Other people moved toward it, a natural crowd forming. I slipped into the flow, just another body heading for the brass doors.
The trick was making it look accidental. You couldn't just bump into someone; it had to be believable. I let another person push past me, used their momentum as an excuse to stumble. My shoulder hit his arm just as the elevator doors opened.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" I grabbed his elbow like I was steadying myself, my other hand already dipping into his inside jacket pocket. The wallet was exactly where rich men always kept them—left side, close to the heart, like they were protecting their money with their vital organs.
He turned to look at me, annoyed, and for one horrible second his eyes focused on mine. Really focused. I saw the flicker of surprise that everyone got when they noticed the heterochromia—one blue eye, one green, like I'd been assembled from spare parts. His mouth opened slightly, probably to say something about them. People always wanted to comment on the eyes.
But his phone buzzed. His attention snapped back to the screen, the moment broken. He grunted something that might have been "Watch it", I couldn't tell. Then he was moving into the elevator, already typing again.
I stayed in the lobby for another thirty seconds, letting my breathing slow, letting him get several floors up before I moved. The wallet sat in my pocket like a lead weight. Heavier than it should be. This thing wasexpensive.
Time to go.
I ducked my head, hunched my shoulders—the universal posture of service staff who didn't want to be bothered—and headed for the service exit. Not the main doors where cameras would catch me leaving. The side door near the loading dock, where delivery drivers and catering staff came and went like ghosts. Where nobody would remember seeing another invisible girl in a polo shirt disappearing into the city.
Three blocks. That was the rule. Get three blocks away before you even looked at what you'd stolen. Three blocks before youtouched the cash. Three blocks before you dumped everything traceable in three different trash cans.
My infected palm screamed as I pushed open the heavy service door. The antibiotics were working, but not fast enough. I needed food. Real food, not the picked-over remains I usually scavenged. This wallet felt expensive enough to buy me an actual meal, maybe even enough left over for bandages that weren't made from stolen napkins.
The alley off 42nd Street smelled like piss and rotting Chinese food, but it was dark and narrow and nobody ever looked down it unless they were trying to score drugs or take a leak. Perfect for checking my score without witnesses. I pressed my back against the brick wall, letting my eyes adjust to the shadows after the bright afternoon glare.
The wallet felt even more expensive when I pulled it out. The leather was butter-soft and probably hand-stitched.
Inside, the cash came first. Three hundred-dollar bills, crisp and new like they'd been ironed. My hands shook as I counted them again. Three hundred dollars. Enough for a week of real meals. Enough for proper medical supplies. Enough to maybe, maybe get a hostel room for a few nights and sleep in an actual bed instead of whatever corner I could find.
Credit cards next—American Express Black, Visa Infinite, some foreign bank card with Cyrillic letters. I wouldn't touch them. Credit cards meant cameras at ATMs, fraud investigators, federal charges if you got caught. I wasn't that desperate. Yet.
The driver's license read Viktor Chenkov. Address on the Upper East Side that probably cost more monthly than most people made in a year. He looked severe in the photo, all sharp cheekbones and cold eyes. Russian, from the name. Or Ukrainian, maybe Bulgarian? I'd learned to recognize the Eastern European look from the Brighton Beach crowds—thatparticular combination of expensive clothes and don't-fuck-with-me energy.
There was a business card tucked behind the license. More Cyrillic text, but the bottom had an English translation: Chenkov Imports, Ltd. International Logistics Solutions. Which was corporate speak for "we move things and don't ask questions."
Something else was wedged behind the business card. Small, black, almost missed it. A USB drive, no bigger than my thumb. Unmarked, no brand name, the kind you bought when you wanted something anonymous. Weird thing to keep in a wallet, but rich people were weird. Maybe it had his bitcoin wallet or porn collection or—
Voices from the street. Loud, angry, foreign. Eastern European though, for sure.
My blood turned to ice.
I crept to the alley mouth, peered around the corner. Viktor Chenkov stood in the middle of the sidewalk, his face purple with rage. Two other men flanked him, both built like refrigerators in expensive suits. Chenkov was patting his pockets frantically, checking inside his jacket again and again like the wallet might magically reappear.
One of the men pulled out a phone, barked orders into it. More unfamiliar words, but I caught fragments—descriptions, commands, the urgency of a hunt beginning. Chenkov kept gesturing wildly, his drunk sway completely gone now, replaced by fury that rolled off him in waves.
