"Mr.Reyes will see you now."
His office screams power. Leather and mahogany, orchids that scent the air.
Arturo Reyes stands when I enter. His handshake is designed to make me feel grateful. But his manicure is fresh, his tan from a bed not a boat, and there's something hungry in how he holds my hand a beat too long.
"Mrs.Marin." Not Reznik. I'm Sera Marin here, my mother's name scrubbed clean of marriage and murder. "Please, sit. Can I offer you anything? Water? Perhaps something stronger?"
"I'm fine, thank you." I let my voice catch. The grieving widow learning to navigate money alone.
He settles behind his desk. There's a photo on the corner. Him on a boat with another man whose face has been scratched out with something sharp. Not hidden, just destroyed. A warning or a promise, left visible for clients to see.
"You mentioned complicated assets at the gala." He leans forward, performing concern while his eyes track down my body. "Your husband's recent passing must be very difficult."
I nod, letting grief shade my features. "It's been overwhelming. The financial matters especially."
"Of course." His smile sharpens. "And these Eastern European connections you mentioned? Those can be particularly complex."
I let confusion show. "He had business associates. I never really understood the details."
"Oh, my dear." His smile turns paternal. "Miami's financial community is small. When someone with connections to families like the Markovics loses their husband, word travels. You're very brave, coming here. Or perhaps very desperate."
My blood chills. He knows exactly who I was married to, even though I never said Julian's name. This entire meeting is a performance for both of us.
"I need discrete management," I say, voice smaller. Let him think he's scared me. "Privacy. Protection from entanglements."
"The Markovic family doesn't usually let assets walk away," he continues, leaning back. "Cristian in particular has been making inquiries. The son. Younger than his father, and considerably less patient. You must have something he wants. Or perhaps your late husband left you something valuable?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"I work with prominent Miami families," he says, changing tack. "The Delgados, the Zayas, even occasionally our Eastern European friends. Discretion is everything in my business. For instance, I facilitate access to secure custody. Physical documents, instruments. Vaults in jurisdictions where curiosity isn't rewarded."
The vault. Confirmation. Whatever Julian's code unlocks, Reyes can access it.
“A vault?” I ask.
"Think of it as a safety deposit box," he says, "but more flexible. Located in places where even the Markovics can't reach."
He gives me his private number, fingers brushing mine. His touch is damp, lingering.
"When you're ready to discuss specifics." The way he says specifics sounds like a threat and a promise. "And Sera? Whatever your husband was hiding, I can help you find it. For a price, of course. Everything has a price."
I stand on legs that want to run. Smooth the fabric of my trousers with hands trained not to shake.
"Thank you, Mr. Reyes."
"Please, call me Arturo." His hand finds the small of my back, pressing possessively. "And remember. Widows in your position often need guidance. I provide that. Thoroughly."
The elevator down takes forever. Twenty-one seconds that feel like hours. In the parking garage, I check my car for devices, but I can’t remember all the places Julian used to check. Mirrors, wheel wells, but I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. In any case, I find nothing.
The black sedan picks me up three blocks from the tower. I let them follow for five turns, then lose them in Wynwood traffic. My hands shake on the wheel. Reyes knows who I am. He musthave done his research after the gala. The question is what he wants for that knowledge.
The Turnpike south becomes my decompression chamber, forty-five minutes to shed the grieving widow and find myself again.
But another sedan appears. Different car now. Dark blue instead of black, but the same energy. The driver sits wrong, too professional, shoulders that know violence. I take three unnecessary exits. They follow for two, disappear on the third. Testing or threatening, I can't tell which.
The investigation has shape now but also danger. Reyes confirmed the vault exists, but he also knows exactly who I am. His guidance comes with a price I haven't calculated yet. The ring burns against my chest, Julian's code feeling heavier now that I know what it opens.
Two worlds, I tell myself. Clean compartments. Reyes and his vault in Miami. Gabriel and his guilt in Homestead. They don't touch.
