177a Bleecker Street New York 소설 & 이야기

ELENA “Are you kidding me?” The words scraped out of my throat, barely more than a whisper. Paul’s face told me everything before he even spoke. No flicker of humour, no mercy. He just shook his head, solemn and heavy, and held his phone out to me. My fingers felt stiff as I took it. The headline on the screen blurred for a second before it sharpened in my vision: “Fire breaks out at Westgate Street, No. 8482, New York.”

The address Jessica provided wasn't a warehouse in Red Hook. That had been misdirection in case I showed the letter to authorities. The real location came via text at 8:45 AM: "Change of plans. Penthouse suite, 432 Park Avenue. Top floor. Come alone. The doorman is expecting you." 432 Park Avenue. One of the most expensive residential buildings in Manhattan. Luxury apartments with panoramic city views. Security cameras everywhere. The last place I expected for a confrontation with a fugitive.

Then I called my assistant. "Clear my schedule for the rest of the week," I said. "And get me Nadia's address in Brooklyn." Two hours later, I was standing outside a walk-up apartment in Park Slope, staring at a building that probably cost less than my monthly parking space. The door buzzed open—broken security, apparently—and I climbed three flights of stairs that smelled like cooking oil and old carpet. Apartment 3B. I knocked. Footsteps. The door opened a crack, security chain still attached.

THE PACKAGE ~ALEXANDER'S POV~ The phone buzzed on my desk. I didn't pick it up lazily. I snatched it. It was the text from Annette, forwarded by Claire. An address in Hell's Kitchen. The location of the man Monica had hired to hurt the people Claire cared about. I looked up at Ilynos, who was standing by the door of the study, already geared up. "You have the address," I said, my voice low and devoid of emotion. "452 West 19th Street. Apartment 4B."

The blueprints were spread out, the address printed clearly at the top. Beatrice walked over to the desk and looked down at the papers. "So," she said, tapping a manicured fingernail on the blueprint, "this is the apartment you are designing for her?" "Yes," I said, walking over. "Zyran bought it today. It’s a rush job, but I’m going to make it beautiful. I want her to feel comfortable." Beatrice read the address on the paper: 1402 Lakeview Drive, Penthouse B. She froze.

"She'd refuse my help in a heartbeat. And Hailey clearly hates me right now. How am I supposed to help when they'd rather sleep on a park bench than accept anything from me?" Jaden stared at me for a beat, a question hanging in the air. "You know—" he started, but I cut him off. My eyebrows snapped together, a thought hitting me like a jolt. "Hold that thought," I said, pulling out my phone. "Give me a minute. You can go back to Hailey." I moved away from Jaden, putting some distance between us, and dialed a familiar number. "Hello," I said, my voice low and direct. "I need some information. I want to know everything about the property at 55 Water Street, Brooklyn, NY 11201. Who owns it, wha

If she were careful, she wouldn’t gnaw it off too quickly. She took it as a good sign that her old Nissan Versa agreed to start. The address she’d been given was on Charles Street in Beacon Hill. Beacon Hill was quintessential old Boston, the most sought-after neighborhood for elite Victorians. People sought it out today as well. Cobbled streets delighted tourists, sidewalks were paved in brick, and Federal-style residences all seemed to sport historical black shutters. Here on Charles Street, swanky shops and restaurants were as common as ivy. Rebecca thanked the parking gods for helping her find a spot just a block away.

And the Carters owned half the police force anyway. "Do you need to get away from the Carter family?" One tap. A long exhale. "Shit. Okay. I'm going to give you an address. Can you get to it?" One tap. "It's my studio. 447 West 23rd Street, between 9th and 10th. There's a blue door around back, in the alley. I'll leave it unlocked starting tonight. If you can get there, I can help you." Beverly's hand shook as she tapped once.

“Yes. Your husband wrote, We went to Jerry and Jim’s till Carlo Dellalucci’s lot blew it up; now we go to Dill’s Diner.” “Where’s that?” demands Melissa. “Where do you live?” “Apartment Forty-three-D, West Eightieth Street,” we say in unison. It’s part of the opening titles. “Oh, New York,” she says, as though she’s saying, Oh, the rubbish dump. “Blew up, as in exploded?” chimes in Matt, looking impressed. “Was anyone killed?” “Chief of police,” I say, with a terse nod. “And the ten-year-old daughter he’d only just met, who died in his arms.”

That would make it more real for her, so she busied herself with going into the brightly lit building. The apartment condo was in the outskirts of New York, and she had to do a thorough research before taking her bike out that way. It contained a hundred apartments, ten on each floor and Blaze stayed in one of the top flats. Only because his father was the owner of the building and he was put in charge of managing it.