The apartment complex looks like it's held together by rust and sheer determination. Three stories of faded brick, fire escapes that probably violate seventeen safety codes, and a front door that doesn't appear to lock properly.
I pull up her file on my phone again. Kristen Thomas. Twenty-six. Single mother. Her daughter had heart surgery. I found the hospital payment. $20,ooo. She had money once.
This should be simple. Write a check. Problem solved.
Money fixes things. That's what it's for.
"Wait here," I tell Liam.
Another nod. He's already positioned the SUV to have clear sightlines of both the building entrance and the street. Old habits.
I step out into the evening air. It smells like exhaust fumes.
The front door definitely doesn't lock. I push it open and step into a hallway that's seen better decades. Someone's cooking fish. Someone else is playing music too loud. Bass thumping through thin walls.
Apartment 3B.
I take the stairs. The elevator has an "Out of Order" sign that looks permanent.
Third floor. The hallway carpet is worn through in patches. I find 3B and knock.
Footsteps inside. Light ones. Then heavier ones—an adult moving quickly.
The door opens three inches, stopped by a chain lock. Smart.
Kristen Thomas stares at me through the gap. Her grey-blue eyes are wary, calculating.
Kristen
The chain rattles as I slide it free and open the door wider.
I knew this would cause problems. The second I saved that woman's life, I felt that sinking sensation in my gut that screams nothing good comes for free.
And here's the proof. Six feet of an Italian man standing in my hallway like he owns it.
"Mommy?" Lily tugs my shirt. "Who's this man?"
Great question, baby girl. I'd love to know myself.
Nico Sartori doesn't belong here. Not in this building. Not outside my door with its peeling paint and that stupid chain lock that wouldn't stop a determined toddler, let alone anyone actually dangerous.
But he's here. And if someone sees him questions get asked. Questions lead to attention. Attention leads to Jack finding out where I live. He might never used his fists to hurt me, but I'm afraid letting him know where I live because my theory says that if he was capable manipulating me for years once, he can do it again.
"Get inside." I grab his arm and pull.
He lets me. That's the thing. I feel the resistance, the solid muscle under that jacket that says he could plant himself like a concrete pillar if he wanted. But he steps through anyway, and I slam the door shut behind him.
The apartment shrinks.
It was already small. A shoebox, really. Living room that doubles as my bedroom, tiny kitchen with the temperamental toaster, Lily's closet-sized space. But with Nico Sartori filling my doorway, it becomes suffocating.
I searched them last night. The Sartoris. Couldn't help myself after that phone call.
Construction empire. Philanthropy galas. Photos of mansions and charity events and enough zeroes attached to their name to make my head spin.
Now he's in my apartment, and I'm acutely aware of the water stain on the ceiling. The secondhand couch with the suspicious spring in the middle cushion. The stack of overdue bills I shoved into a drawer this morning.
Pathetic.
