And if Lyla was going to survive in this world, she needed to understand that.
The underworld had its own kind of order, lines you didn’t cross. Here, rules didn’t come from honor; they were born from necessity. They were brutal, but they existed for a reason. They were the only thing separating men like me—killers with principles—from the monsters who trafficked in flesh. Without people like me, men like Epstein would be kings.
Power protected. Weakness meant death.
She’d learn.
Or she’d break.
I pulled out my phone.
Clean-up on aisle two. Sending the location now. One body, 3B. No damage to me or the girl.
A reply came mere seconds later from the on-call DarkMatter crew.Understood.We’re on it. ETA 10.
I shot Rory a quick text:Pick me up. Now.
Then I slipped the phone back into my coat and turned for the stairs, descending quickly, head down.
No need to be noticed.
I pushed through the front vestibule door just as headlights swept around the corner. The SUV came to a halt in front of me, and I slid in.
Rory didn’t say a word—just pulled away from the curb and drove down the street.
I exhaled hard, flexing my jaw. My knuckles still ached from restraint, and I wanted to hit something again. But instead, I reached for my phone and opened the app I’d been living in lately.
The feed from the third-floor hallway of Lyla’s apartment building came online. There was a nice wide-angle lens expertly installed above the stairwell, one of several I’d had my team place throughout the building’s common areas. I’d insisted on full coverage—everywhere she might pass through. Anywhere someone might hurt her.
The hallway remained empty for several minutes. Then a shape appeared from the stairwell—tall, hooded, gloved. One of mine.
Another followed behind, carrying a canvas duffle.
They both paused briefly outside 3B, then slipped inside.
I couldn’t see what happened beyond the threshold of the apartment—there was no camera in the unit itself—but I didn’t need to. I’d seen enough of these jobs to know the choreography.
One man would guard the ground-floor entryway, wipe it down, and repair the latch I had busted. The other two would handle the body bag, sanitize the scene, and remove every trace of evidence that Epstein had been killed or I had been there. Any local camera footage, if it existed, would be wiped by the guys back at the office.
Epstein’s apartment would appear undisturbed, as if he could walk in at any second.
Instead, he’d be ash in the East River before sunrise.
I swiped left on the app, pulling up Lyla’s apartment.
She was in the living room—hair wild, shock written all over her face. She paced like a caged animal, chewing her thumbnail and gripping her phone like a lifeline. No one else was home.
She went to the door and checked the lock, then the deadbolt. Twice.
When she turned back toward the futon, she froze.
She leaned back against the door and slid down, her ass hitting the floor with a jolt. She clutched her knees to her chest.
Her body was trembling.
Good.
Let her be afraid.
