200 Eleventh Avenue Novels & Stories

° * ° * ° Joe lives in a fancy apartment in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. With his briefcase in hand, he slowly waltzes into his apartment building. After passing security, he starts to walk down the busy hall toward the elevator. This building is truly majestic. It is a glass house with several silver chandeliers arranged across the hallway. It also has three elevators leading upstairs and right now, they're all ringing as several people keep coming in and out. It is almost fully dark outside and many people just returned from work while some others are going out to have dinner in one of the many fancy restaurants across Manhattan

Chapter 175: The Sovereign Verdict The private elevator climbed up the outside of the Wall Street tower in silence. Through the glass wall the grey city of Manhattan looked like a grid of stone and steam.. Julian and Elena didn't look out at the city they had spent three years bringing to its knees. The elevator bell chimed softly as the doors opened into the lobby on the sixty-third floor.

Elena’s POV The corner suite on the eleventh floor of the Hay-Adams Hotel looked out across Lafayette Square toward the North Portico of the White House. Rain streaked the tall glass panes in long, silver ribbons, casting a muted, blue-grey light across the heavy mahogany furnishings and cream damask armchairs. At eight-fifty-five in the morning, the heart of Washington was locked in a quiet, breathless paralysis—a city waiting for a bell it didn't know was about to ring.

“See you in a bit, Ana.” ⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜ Club Eleven was true to its name, standing eleven stories high. With a different theme on each floor, the club offered a unique blend of entertainment. Rumor had it that the higher up you went, the more debauched. Anateya wanted to get to the very top before midnight. “Holy Shit.” Diana whistled, looking her best friend up and down as she got into the limo. “You’ve been hiding a temptress underneath all those oversized hoodies.”

I said his name out loud, because I needed to hear it in the air to know it was real. "Atlas Marchetti." I turned the key. I drove forty blocks south. Fifth Avenue blurred past me. A taxi cut across me at 50th. A bus stopped at 47th. A man on the corner of 38th sold roses from a bucket, three for ten dollars, and he was the only person on the street who looked like he was in his right life that night. The building was on Greenwich Street, three blocks east of the river. Pre-war cast iron. Six floors. Dark windows except for one on the top floor.

ETHAN I was in a meeting when my assistant knocked on the door. "Mr. Hoss, I'm sorry to interrupt. There's breaking news you should see." She handed me her tablet. “BREAKING: Explosion at Upper East Side Residential Building. Car Bomb Suspected.” I read the headline, irritated at the interruption. "Why does this concern me?" "The building address, sir. 740 Park Avenue." My stomach dropped. That was Vanessa Latham's building. I took the tablet, reading quickly.

Eleanor's townhouse was in the West Village, one of the blocks where the nineteenth century had survived into the present by the specific grace of good maintenance and the particular tenacity of people who understood that a thing worth having was worth keeping. The block was quiet — quieter than most of Manhattan, with a quality of stillness that suggested money and history and the kind of wealth that didn't need to announce itself.

BRANDON One o’clock. Josephine Shaw Memorial Fountain, Bryant Park. From the inside of the food truck facing Bryant Park in Sixth Avenue, Cary and I monitor the satellite covering the front of the memorial fountain. In about three minutes, we should be in contact with Oliver. My left ear gives me the line for Stan, Pauline, and the Wolf; they’re only a few miles behind Pauline as she is getting ready. My right ear offers me Silvanus’s line.

he finishes as he snacks on some Pringles. "Great," I mumble as I steer Manny towards the stairs. "What floor are you on?" Manny questions. "The eleventh floor," I say as I blow out a breath. "So that's like how many steps?" "Let's see," I count in my head. "There are 24 steps between each floor, so that's 132 steps to the eleventh floor." "Damn, and how often does the elevator break down?" "Like twice per week," I groan.

The penthouse of the Waldorf-Astoria was a silent, gilded cage, suspended three hundred feet above the frantic pulse of Park Avenue. Avery Evans-Thorne stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, her breath fogging the expensive glass. Below, the city was no longer a grid of lights; it was a sea of motion. The "Dead-Man’s Burst" she had triggered from the elevator hadn't just sent a video; it had ignited a riot of realization.