บททั้งหมดของ My Billionaire Ex's Biggest Regret: บทที่ 111 - บทที่ 120

It was twenty past eleven when Jack arrived at 52 Forsythe Avenue. He turned the engine off. "Let's go," he said to Sam, opening the door.Sam followed him up the old building stairs. The suave cohesion of jazz drifted in through an open window from somewhere above them. There was a string next door, their voices blending into undistinguishable blasphemy.Jack hovered outside Mike Freeway's apartment and pulled his coat collar up. "This guy is going to make a statement," he whispered. “Get it down.”“Yes, sir,” Sam replied, his notebook already out.Jack pressed the bell.Sam heard the rustle of footsteps and the scrape of a chair during the brief silence. The door opened, and Mike Freeway stood with a wet sponge over his swollen right eye.He glared from Jack to Sam, a flush of embarrassment creeping into his eyes. "Ah… it's you.""Aye," Jack snarled, elbowing him aside and into the room. "You're still alive, I notice."Freeway paused before stepping aside. "I said earlier, Lieutenan

The Transfort Hotel was a notorious establishment to be associated with. A neon game fun arcade, flashing half-life, and a battered, abandoned riverfront bar were the locations of an all-night motel. The outside was shaded by neon, casting a hazy glow over the broken sidewalk. The interior radiated the smell of cigarette smoke, lingering about like damp fog clinging to the ceiling. It reeked of gin, dry sweat, and lost thoughts.A cunningly disguised sliding panel in the basement produced a dull noise heard beneath the lower dark space where dope aficionados were seeking magic tricks from opium pipes. The top floor houses individuals who had recently been discharged from prison, trusting that their names would be forgotten.Lieutenant Jack entered the lobby, his boots sparkling spotlessly and sloping down the red carpet. The brass chandelier overhead was tarnished, and the fellow behind the desk—Bruce Orton—was similarly much a figure: short and stocky and as tough as the bricks that

The rain hadn’t stopped by morning.It fell in soft, straight sheets that glittered on the streets and caused them to shine like liquid silver.East River piers were the lifeblood of the city—vintage, rusted, but still attracting attention with smuggled goods and underworld transactions. Bill Darcy owned at least three warehouses there, not in his own name, though. The address Jack was visiting was registered in the name of Graystone Imports, a dummy company.He pulled over at Pier Forty-Two. Fog choked as cathedral-sized ships. He felt for his gun, then melted into the darkness in a row of cargo crates.Soft jazz murmured from the open doors ahead—slow, lazy, and despairing. He caught the scent of whiskey, cigars, and something more: perfume. The smoky kind that seared memory onto your lungs.There was one light bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting light on stacks of boxes with shipping figures. Cross-legged on top of one of them was Sandra HarrisJack froze.She was dressed for the

By the time city lights began bleeding through the glass, Benton Tower was half asleep. The last employees had left, their quiet laughter echoing through the marble lobby and into the evening.Lilian Newton sat in her office, but the only illumination it possessed came from a desk lamp. Before her lay some old files belonging to Uncle George: contracts, letters, and invoices. On the surface, everything appeared legitimate. But she knew better.Graystone’s name kept surfacing like a stain that refused to fade. Hidden among trade reports were coded memos, initials that didn’t belong, and signatures that had been altered or forged.Then she found the folder she didn’t recognize.“E. Chase,” it read in clean, faded ink.Her pulse stumbled. She flipped it open. Inside were a few photographs — Evelyn Chase and a man she couldn’t place, both laughing in the dim haze of a nightclub. Behind them, a neon sign glowed faintly in the picture: The Velvet Room.There was also a single note, scrawled

The wind off the river carried the stink of diesel and salt, rolling low and heavy across the docks. Kelz sat stiffly at the prow of the speedboat, hands clenched on the rail as the city’s lights shimmered on the dark water. He hadn’t slept since dawn. His mind had been a relentless loop—Darcy’s voice, the botched job, Sean’s escape.For the first time in years, Kelz felt fear settle deep in his bones. Not the kind that makes you flinch at gunfire, but the kind that seeps into your blood and eats away at your nerves. He had failed—and men who failed Bill Darcy didn’t get second chances.Slize steered, cigarette glowing faintly in his mouth. “You’re quiet,” he said, glancing over.Kelz didn’t answer. He was thinking about the last time he saw Darcy’s eyes—cold, gray, like a man who’d already buried you in his mind. Darcy didn’t shout when you disappointed him. He just looked at you long enough for the air to leave your lungs. Then, later, you’d hear a rumor—that so-and-so had disappear