Novel West Midtown Reviews Novels & Stories

One narrows. “You’re late,” Vince says. “It’s eight-thirty,” she replies. “And our world starts at seven,” he says. “Sit. We’re reviewing proposals before the noon board call.” She takes a seat at the far end, next to Luca. A stack of leather-bound folders appears in front of her like magic. She flips the top one open, scanning project summaries. Rezoning. Midtown. Waterfront. The same types of lines, different blocks. “Don’t be dramatic, Dad,” Marco says between mouthfuls of toast. “Most of the city doesn’t even wake up till nine.”

POV: Lena Moretti The new location was a brownstone in a quiet neighborhood on the east side. Not The Obsidian with its glass walls and surveillance cameras and the ghost of who I'd been when I lived there. This was neutral territory. Three floors. Furnished but impersonal. Naomi had secured it through a chain of corporate entities that would take Julian's investigators weeks to unravel. By then, it wouldn't matter.

# Chapter Fifteen: Family Dinner Weston Cade's townhouse in the Upper East Side was the kind of beautiful that announced itself immediately and aggressively — antique furniture arranged with museum precision, a chandelier that had probably cost more than Ivy's entire restaurant business plan, and a housekeeper who took Ivy's coat with the practiced neutrality of someone paid handsomely not to have opinions about the guests.

The heavy autumn rain had transformed Midtown Manhattan into a blurred expanse of slate and charcoal, the cold downpour washing over the floor-to-ceiling glass of the penthouse suite. Inside, the quiet hum of the climate control system kept the air warm, rich with the faint scent of cedarwood, roasted chicory, and the sharp, clean bite of dry gin.

"You're incredibly arrogant, Mr. Vesper." "I am mathematically certain, Miss Dawson," I corrected, leaning down to press a firm, lingering kiss to the crown of her head, the rich scent of her rose-infused perfume filling my lungs. The SUV navigated the Midtown grid with predatory efficiency, bypassing the standard commercial avenues until we pulled up to the curb of Midtown West. The historic storefront of *Le Bernardin* was entirely dark, its massive glass windows shielded by heavy, custom privacy drapes. The standard velvet ropes that usually held back a horde of Manhattan's elite were gone. The sidewalk was completely clear, save for two of Nikolai’s tactical security personnel standing i

Even it was raining hard, the street was still busy with wheels rolling on the wet street, and feet marching on the sidewalk. The Ladies’ Coffee was a small café on the east of New York City. It was quite unpopular because of its location. It was hidden behind the tall law firm building, and was a bit far from the center of downtown. Not many actually knows that an eighteen-years-old café was existing behind the Madison Firm.

He placed his phone face down on the bed and headed for the kitchen to make fresh coffee. When he came back into his bedroom, there was a reply. Nine o'clock. Address below. And then there was an address in Midtown that, when Elijah looked it up on his phone, turned out to be the ground floor of a building with its own Wikipedia page. He stood there in his bedroom doorway, his coffee in hand, looking at the address for what seemed like a long time. Outside, the city was coming to life – the first buses, someone's music coming from the building across the street, the way the light was changing that told him the day was starting for real.

Right before I lost all consciousness, I saw those strange floating words in front of me again. [The side character has died such a tragic death. The villain will surely go crazy.] [My god! How could they do that to my favorite villain pairing? They are so much more believable than the main characters!] When I opened my eyes once more, the pain had completely vanished. I subconsciously looked at the clock on the wall. Midnight. Comments appeared in front of me again. [Don't open the window! There's no cat outside! It's a serial killer!]

I wheel it out of the parking garage of my building and the second I start to pick up speed all my worries melt away. I shrug off my angst as I maneuver between cars and shoot down the busy streets of New York with chilly air whipping through my hair. I go and go and go and 20 minutes after I leave home I realize I’m in the Upper West Side. I head to my favorite pick up joint in the area, aptly namedThe Meat Market.

Jasmine's POV Where I chose wasn't hip. It wasn't some fashionable diner we had to fuss and primp over, waiters in black shirts and spouting to us condescendingly about what wine to drink and farm-to-table flavour. It wasn't a fifth-story club that he could reserve based on his black card, with champagne and a city view more money than most pay for an apartment rent. No. It was tiny, discreet on the Upper West Side, the sort of establishment you might drive by a hundred times and have no idea that you had done it unless you were actively searching for whatever it was that it did.