Chapter 2

"Vincent's bidding on the South Ward parcel next week. His ceiling is three hundred million."

Dominic raised an eyebrow. "You're certain?"

"He'll win. But three months from now, the city's going to find a colonial-era burial ground under that site. Construction gets halted indefinitely. Three hundred million, frozen solid. Untouchable."

I leaned back. "What you're going to do is let him win. And while his capital's tied up in archaeological red tape, you're going to acquire Atlas Logistics—the weakest link in his supply chain. He's leveraged to the teeth on that operation."

Dominic's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You've thought this through."

"I've had time."

He opened a drawer and slid a black card across the desk toward me. The kind that didn't have a credit limit printed on it because there wasn't one.

"Five hundred thousand. Operating capital. Consider it a test."

He didn't add and if you run, I'll find you. He didn't have to. Men like Dominic Salucci didn't make threats. They made statements of fact.

"Don't think this means you're free and clear," he said. "You're an investment now. I protect my investments."

I pocketed the card.

"I wouldn't dream of disappointing you."

The sun was too bright when I stepped out onto Park Avenue. The warmth felt borrowed. I'd learned that lesson already—anything can be taken away. The only real safety is power, and I had none of my own yet.

I used Dominic's money to rent a small apartment in Brooklyn. Nothing flashy. The kind of place Vincent's surveillance team would find unremarkable. Then I bought a new laptop and started laying breadcrumbs.

False leads. Misleading search histories. Just enough activity to make Vincent's monitoring software light up.

I knew he was watching—I'd found the spyware on my old devices a week before I signed the papers. Every keystroke, every website, every half-formed plan I typed out, all of it piped directly into Vincent's inbox.

Let him watch. Let him feel superior.

The real play was Atlas Logistics. I knew—because I'd watched it happen in the last life—that Atlas was about to implode. A shipping container full of contraband. A investigation. Stock price in freefall.

The information was my second offering to Dominic. Proof that my value extended beyond one lucky guess.

Everything unfolded on schedule. I timed my trades to the second, moving all my capital into short positions sixty seconds before the news broke.

But the stock didn't crater.

Someone was buying. Aggressively. Propping up the price with enough capital to absorb every sell order and then some.

I stared at the screen, my pulse steady even as the numbers turned red.

Of course.

Vincent, you clever bastard. You were never going to make this easy.

My phone buzzed. His name on the screen.

I answered.

"Adriana." His voice dripped with theatrical disappointment. "Did you really think leaving me meant you could win?"

I said nothing.

"You think I didn't notice you were acting strange two weeks before you signed? You think I didn't see you buy that burner laptop? Every word you've typed. Every stock you've researched. All of it lands in my inbox before you finish hitting enter."

He paused, letting the violation sink in.

"I planted that contraband story myself, Adriana. Bait. And you bit."

My voice came out steady. "I see."

"You think Salucci's your savior? He's using you. A dog I kicked out of my house, and he picked you up off the street because you know where the bones are buried. When you stop being useful, you know what happens to strays."

I hung up.

The apartment was silent. The numbers on my screen glowed red—losses I couldn't afford, money that wasn't mine to lose.

But I wasn't panicking.

Vincent, you think you're watching me. You think you've got me mapped. But you've just confirmed what I needed to know—that your surveillance is still active, and you're arrogant enough to telegraph your moves.

My phone rang again. Not Vincent. My landlord.

"Ms. Hale? You need to vacate. Today."

"I have a lease."

"The building's been sold. New owner says he doesn't want you here. I'm sorry."

Vincent had bought the building. Of course he had. Cutting off my shelter, my money, my dignity. Squeezing until I had nowhere left to turn except back to him, crawling.

I called him. I hated myself for it, but the plan required it.

"Vincent. My things are still at the house. I'm coming to get them."

His voice was warm. Almost tender. The voice he used when he was enjoying himself most.

"Of course. Come home, Adriana. Come ask me nicely."

Thirty minutes later, I stood at the door of the townhouse I'd managed for a decade.