3. Charlotte

3

CHARLOTTE

T he city’s heat is relentless, even in the shade of Columbia’s iconic campus. The sidewalks pulse with the energy of August—too many people, too much noise, and not enough relief. I stand on the corner of Broadway, sunglasses shielding my eyes as I watch the churn of students and parents filing through the university gates.

My phone buzzes. Carlo.

I ignore it.

Sophie stands next to me, rifling through a tote bag stuffed with orientation schedules and welcome packets. Her hair’s down today, waves brushing her shoulders, but the heat has already plastered stray strands to her temples.

“This is stupid,” she says, pulling out a map of the campus like she might actually need it. “I already hate this place. It’s a waste of time. And why did we drive here when we could’ve flown?”

I glance at her, my voice flat. “So we could spend quality time together, and you need to understand the area.”

She rolls her eyes, shifting from foot to foot. “You and your cryptic answers. It’s New York, not the Amazon. ”

I let her frustration roll off me. She doesn’t get it yet—why we’re here, why I made her sit through hours of traffic to arrive under the cover of normalcy. But she will.

My phone buzzes again. A text this time: Call me. Urgent.

“Sophie,” I say, sliding my phone into my palm. “Go check out the student union.”

Her brow furrows. “Why?”

Rule #11: People rarely see what’s right in front of them. That’s why you always dress the part. It’s easier to blend in than to disappear.

But I don’t say that to her. “Because I said so.” I nod toward the gates. “And stop sulking.”

She glares at me but grabs her bag and walks toward the campus entrance. Once she’s out of sight, I hit call.

“Finally,” Carlo huffs with a sigh as he picks up.

“What is it?”

“We’ve got a hit. Your target’s in New York. Harlem, to be exact.”

I straighten at the news. “Who?”

“Celeste Smith,” he says, his voice tense. “Ring any bells?”

I don’t answer right away, but my pulse quickens. Celeste was one of Michael’s trusted handlers—the kind who made things happen and kept her hands clean in the process.

“She’s running a lounge not far from Morningside Park,” Carlo continues. “Fancy place—good food, better clientele. But rumors say she’s still moving product on the side. Serious connections, Charlotte. Tread carefully.”

“Funny. I thought I was good at my job.”

“This isn’t a joke,” he snaps. “She’s not some street-level dealer. You screw this up and she’ll bury you before you see it coming.”

I hang up without another word.

Inside the campus gates, the buzz of Columbia is both electric and exhausting. Parents clutch reusable coffee cups like lifelines while students—young, nervous, and pretending not to be—cluster around orientation booths. The air smells faintly of hot pretzels and ambition.

I spot Sophie by the library steps, her head tilted as she listens to a tour guide in a Columbia hoodie. A half-empty soda can dangles from her fingers.

She sees me approach and raises an eyebrow. “What’s the verdict?”

“Orientation’s exactly what you’d expect.”

“No,” she says, her voice sharper. “What’s going on with you?”

I glance around. Too many people, too many eyes. “We’ll talk later.”

She folds her arms. “Of course. Later. Always later.”

Her tone annoys me, but I let it slide. “Enjoy the rest of the tour,” I say, brushing past her as I head for the exit.

Back outside, I pull out my phone and skim through the dossier Carlo sent. Celeste’s name catches my eye, her photo pinned to the page, her face frozen in time.

Celeste Smith. Lounge owner. NYC.

The notes are brief, but the warning is clear: Protection likely.

I swipe the screen, the words lingering in my mind. Celeste is smart, methodical, and ruthless. She doesn’t leave loose ends, which makes her both a threat and an opportunity.

Sophie appears suddenly, her expression as stormy as the dark clouds rolling in over the city. “I can’t do this,” she says. “Turns out, I hate people.”

“I see.”

She shifts, restless. “So what now?”

“Now,” I say, “we catch a cab. Time to learn the streets.”

Her eyes widen in disbelief. “Wait, really?”

I don’t look at her as I speak. “Welcome to the real world.”

She doesn’t ask questions. She slides into the cab beside me, her posture stiff as we pull away, the city already pulsing around us.

The cab swerves through traffic, the scent of tar and exhaust mingling with the faint odor of musty upholstery. The list I’m mulling over feels heavy as the cab picks up speed, weaving between pedestrians and honking cars.

Celeste doesn’t know we’re in town, but she will soon enough.

And Sophie? She’s about to learn what it really means to adapt.