Not Ivan’s personal one. The burner. The one that buzzes with encrypted messages from the boss. Black case, no visible branding. I’ve seen him check it enough times to know it’s the lifeline to the outside world.
My pulse roars in my ears.
I move.
Silent steps across the rug. Quickly past the couch. Close enough now to smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with the day’s sweat. Close enough to see the steady rise and fall of his chest.
The phone is right there.
I reach, my fingers close around cool metal. I pull it free. No alarm. No vibration. Just the soft snick of plastic leaving wood.
Screen lights up at my touch—no lock screen, thank God. Probably assumes no one would dare. Arrogant bastard.
I message Todd, the only person whose number I know off the top of my head. My father rarely has the same phone for more than a day, so knowing his number has never been a thing.
My fingers fly across the screen…
LANDON: I need your help. ASAP. Can’t say more but meet me at our favorite spot. You know the one. DO NOT call the police. Me XoXo
I hit send and feel my heart skip a beat. To say this is intense would be an understatement. The little whoosh sound feels deafening in the silence.
I don’t wait to see if it delivers. I slide the phone into my hoodie pocket—evidence, maybe leverage later—then turn my attention to Ivan himself.
His jacket is slung over the back of the chair. Leather. Soft from wear. I ease my hand inside the inner pocket.
More keys. A small fob with the building logo. Keycard—black plastic, gold stripe. Both clipped to a small ring.
This is happening. This is really happening.
I take everything I need.
My heart is slamming so hard I’m sure Ivan will wake from the vibration alone. He doesn’t.
One more stop.
Kitchen.
I detour left, silent as a shadow. The block of knives sits on the counter—gleaming under the faint under-cabinet lights. I select the chef’s knife. Eight-inch blade. Sharp enough to slice paper. I wrap it in a dish towel from the drawer, then tuck the bundle into the side pocket of my backpack.
Just in case.
Guards. Doormen. Whoever stands between me and the elevator.
Now back to the front door.
Triple bolts. Keycard reader. Numeric keypad beside it—four digits.
I’ve been watching him punch it in at every chance. Never obvious, always angled away, but I’ve caught fragments, and maybe that’s enough. Years of studying legal documents and reference numbers have honed my skill at this kind of thing.
First two: 3… 5…
Last one: 9.
Middle digit is the question mark.
I exhale slowly. Steady hands.
3519
