50. Charlotte

50

CHARLOTTE

T he driver drops me a block from his home. The humid Florida night clings to me, the heat amplified by the mix of sand and concrete. Even in the dark, the street hums with life—laughter drifting from a nearby porch, the gentle sound of waves crashing in the distance.

I walk the final stretch in heels that weren’t made for uneven pavement, the rhythmic click of my steps blending with the ambient noises of the neighborhood. Risky? Sure. But time isn’t on my side. I promised Michael I wouldn’t take long.

The house looms ahead, nestled among its pristine, multimillion-dollar neighbors. The soft glow of porch lights contrasts with the harsh, distant glare of streetlamps. The place is deceptively understated, a quiet facade hiding the man inside. No gate, no hedge—but the cameras perched above the porch and angled at the door don’t miss a thing, which is good because he’s so rarely here.

I smile at one, tilting my head like I’m posing. But it’s pointless, really. I know they’ve been disabled. The porch is spotless, and as I reach the top step, the door swings open. He’s waiting.

The figure standing in the doorway is tall, slender, with dark hair falling just short of his collar. His face is familiar, but not in a comforting way. It’s a face that haunts the back of my mind, a face I haven’t seen in a long time.

“Well, well,” he says, voice low, a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I didn't think you'd show.”

I study him carefully, my hand never leaving the inside of my coat where I know my gun is waiting. He’s more relaxed now, but still the same—still someone I should’ve killed a long time ago. But I wasn’t ready then. I am now.

He leans casually in the doorway, wearing a ball cap as if he’s trying to blend in, though it does little to hide the sharpness of his jawline—the kind that suggests he’s mastered control while pretending to be above it.

“You’re late,” he says, his eyes sweeping over me in one slow, calculating glance.

I brush past him, the scent of leather and expensive cologne hitting me as I step inside. “You’re observant.”

The entryway is vast, a space that feels both imposing and inviting. Polished tile floors gleam under the soft, ambient light. There’s no warmth here, no comfort—just sleek surfaces and sharp angles. His world is one of control, and it’s evident in every detail of the room.

I pause for just a second, conscious of the need to remain anonymous. The last thing I need is for him to recognize me. The makeup’s heavier tonight, the wig—unnaturally long and dark—covering most of my face. The dark sunglasses perched on the bridge of my nose, in spite of being inside now, help conceal my identity, and the loose, shapeless clothes do their part in hiding my figure.

But even with the layers, I can feel his gaze on me, like he’s trying to piece me together. I know him too well. If I slip even a fraction, he’ll spot the deception. And I’ll be dead before I can make it out that door.

The living room is a study in understated luxury. A large sectional takes up one side of the room, its leather so smooth it almost shines under the overhead light. Everything is arranged with precision, but it feels...hollow. No family photos. No clutter. Just objects carefully placed to say something about the man who lives here—someone who has a knack for making chaos seem composed.

“You know, I expected you to come in a little more... dressed up,” he says, breaking the silence. His voice is smooth, like silk, but with an edge to it—like he’s always in control of the situation. “A little more...enticing.”

I shrug, trying not to let his words hit me. “I’m here to do business, not entertain you.”

He chuckles, low and dark, and motions for me to sit on the couch. “Business is entertainment for people like us. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

I take a seat, crossing my legs, but keep my back straight. I don’t trust the couch—it’s too comfortable, too inviting, and I know what happens when you get too comfortable in a place like this.