I remembered her throwing that five thousand dollars and the note in the trash—Federico dug it up. A club janitor found it, busybody flipped through it, told people like it was gossip.
A gold digger who threw away five grand.
Fucking ironic.
I picked up my phone again and sent Federico a second message. "Find out where she is now."
Then a third. "Her debt. I'm buying it."
The car started moving again, streets sliding past the window.
I leaned back, phone in my palm, watching the flowing city outside. That hollow still sat in my chest, but now something else sat beside it—not warmth, but something colder, more calculated. Focused.
I hated this woman.
Hated that she was a pawn, hated that she set me up, hated that she cost me an alliance negotiated over years, hated the way those eyes looked at me, hated the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth when she said, "You fucking won."
But this child had to be born.
As for her...
Not a threat.
People who were thoroughly broke were easiest to control, because they knew exactly what their chips were worth, and exactly what waited for them when those chips ran out. Give her what she wanted, take what she couldn't lose, she'd cooperate.
They always cooperated.
The elevator doors closed behind me. In the mirror was my own face. Deep green eyes, neatly trimmed beard, hard jawline, steady, perfectly composed.
The corner of my mouth lifted slightly. Not a smile. A kind of settled confirmation.
The elevator arrived. Doors opened. I stepped out.
Chapter Four
Olivia
At six weeks pregnant, I was working the graveyard shift at a twenty-four-hour convenience store, scanning items and taking cash like some kind of zombie.
The fluorescent lights were brutal—harsh white that made everyone look like they'd just rolled out of a morgue. The AC cranked so hard the cold air hit my neck in waves, sent me sneezing every five minutes.
But it beat the coffee shop gig. At least I wasn't drowning in that bitter smell that made my stomach churn anymore. And I could sit, not stand for eight straight hours. I'd steal moments with my eyes closed when the place was dead.
Three in the morning, some drunk vagrant was doing laps around the cheap beer section. He grabbed the bottom-shelf stuff, stumbled to my register.
"Three fifty."
He dumped out a handful of crumpled bills. I counted it out, gave him his change, and watched him push through the door into the dark.
The bell chimed. I was alone again.
My hand went to my stomach without thinking about it.
Earlier that day, I'd walked into a pharmacy, grabbed a box of pills, and put it back. Grabbed it again. Put it back. Stood at the register for three minutes like an idiot, then walked out empty-handed and stood by a trash can outside for a long time—and threw the bag in.
Clean. Just like that.
Even I didn't see it coming.
