Chapter Nine

October 7

New York City

M iles instructed the driver to drop him at his Upper East Side address. It was his alias, Caleb Cain’s, apartment. He guarded his real identity and residence with his life.

Outside the highrise, he straightened his tie and smoothed back his hair. Miles didn’t want anyone asking questions.

When Miles strode into the lobby, Burton, the doorman, flagged him down. The uniformed man at the circular reception desk said, “Mr. Cain, your guests are waiting in the lounge.” Burton cocked his head, and Miles looked over his shoulder to see two exceedingly sexy and professionally dressed women sitting placidly on a small sofa. When they saw Miles, they stood in unison.

Ugentti’s words came flooding back: That was a taste of the stick, Mr. Cain. I’m sending a couple of carrots your way.

Miles smiled at the doorman. “Oh yes, it must have slipped my mind.”

Burton leaned across the desk, then tapped his temple. “You’re bleeding.”

Miles withdrew a linen handkerchief from his inner pocket and pressed it to his head. “Damn. Caught the corner of the car door. Must have broken the skin.”

Burton accepted the explanation and cast an admiring glance at the approaching women.

A redhead and a brunette stood side-by-side before Miles. The redhead spoke. “Mr. Ugentti wanted to make sure we finalized the plans for the agreement?” She phrased it like a question.

Miles knew how to play the game. More importantly, he knew how to win it. “Excellent. Why don’t we go upstairs, and we can review the paperwork.”

A pair of sultry smiles preceded him into the elevator, and they rode in silence to the eleventh floor. The apartment was a sizable, nondescript two-bedroom along a hallway with a dozen similar units. The decor was beige and minimalist—it looked like an IKEA display room.

The women, whose names were “whatever you want them to be,” made quick work of transforming from executives to what they were: high-end prostitutes. Miles poured himself a drink, and by the time he turned back around, their clothes were in a pool on the carpet, and the redhead was fondling the brunette.

“Back in a flash.” Miles unbuttoned his shirt and walked into the bedroom. When the door was closed, he blew out an anguished breath. His ribs were no doubt bruised, and his gut throbbed. That asshole’s parting kick to his kidney ensured he’d probably be pissing blood for a week. Miles shed his clothes at the dresser and pulled a pair of distressed jeans and a gray T-shirt from the drawer. Mussing his hair with one hand, he stepped into battered boots. In the closet, he removed his watch and replaced it with a military G-shock, then grabbed a money clip thick with bills and shoved it in his front pocket.

When he returned to the living room, he didn’t wait for the women to process the transformation. Miles crossed to the closet, retrieved his helmet and black leather jacket, and fished out the wad of cash.

The redhead spoke. “Everything’s been taken care of.” Her words didn’t stop her from eyeing the bankroll.

“Consider this a bonus for your cooperation.”

Both women appeared cautious but curious.

Miles continued as he peeled hundreds from the stack, “The bar is stocked. There’s food in the fridge. I have every streaming service. Stay for two hours.” He held out three thousand dollars folded between two fingers. “You could tell Ugentti I left, but that doesn’t say much for your powers of seduction.”

The brunette stepped forward and took the cash. “Or my financial sense.”

Beside her, the redhead handed him a card. “If you need us in the future. For anything.”

Miles slipped the card into his back pocket, nodded his thanks, and left. After taking the elevator to the underground garage, he wound his way to the back, staying in the surveillance blind spots, and pulled the tarp off his baby.

Five minutes later, Miles was speeding down the FDR on the Ducati. Every bump jarred his aching ribs, and he could feel his lip swelling beneath the black helmet.

After traveling the remaining distance to Alphabet City on the Lower East Side, Miles entered the converted Nineteenth Century commercial bakery, stowed the bike in an interior room on the ground floor, and took the industrial elevator to his home. His twin owned the building, so when Miller moved to South Carolina with his wife, Miles convinced his brother not to sell. He then spent three months renovating. The apartment was still a classic open loft, but he had walled off the bedroom and bathroom, installed a spiral staircase to the rooftop, and used the existing beams and support pillars to divide the space subtly.

Miles closed the door behind him and doubled over. His head throbbed, his gut ached, and his fury surged. After pouring himself a large whiskey and downing half, he staggered into the bedroom, pausing in the doorway. Some might call him obsessive. Miles preferred meticulous . The room was as he had left it. The king bed was made with a slate gray comforter and matching sheets. The bedside tables each held a small lamp; the one on the far side had a charging station. The dresser was bare. Then, the discrepancy caught his eye. He had uncharacteristically left the closet door ajar. After pushing it closed, Miles peeled off his jacket and shirt to assess the damage. He stepped before the standing mirror in the corner, already seeing the bruises blooming on his torso. He took a half-step closer to inspect the damage. A rustling sound had Miles checking the room in the mirror’s reflection. Behind him, the door to the walk-in closet flew open.