Chapter 1 - The Neighbor Upstairs
Elena slammed the broom against the open doorway and shouted:
"Some of us are trying to sleep!"
The man upstairs looked at the brass apartment key clenched in her hand.
A thin red scratch crossed the number 5C.
His face changed.
This was not a noise complaint.
At exactly 3:12 a.m., Elena Renner had finally reached the limit of what one exhausted human being could reasonably tolerate.
For three weeks, the apartment above hers had sounded as though someone was rearranging furniture for a funeral.
Heavy footsteps crossed the ceiling after midnight.
Then stopped.
Then returned.
Sometimes there were low voices.
Sometimes the unmistakable scrape of something heavy being dragged across hardwood.
Twice, Elena had heard a door slam so hard that the picture frame beside her bed tilted crooked.
Her landlord, Mr. Givens, had ignored four emails.
The building superintendent had answered one text with, "I'll look into it."
He never had.
Tonight, Elena had gone to bed at eleven because she had a presentation at nine the next morning. She worked as an architectural illustrator for a small Manhattan design firm, and missing deadlines was not an option when your boss believed sleep was a personal weakness.
At 2:48, the footsteps began again.
At 2:56, something crashed.
At 3:04, Elena sat up.
At 3:08, she put on her slippers.
At 3:10, she grabbed the broom.
At 3:12, she was standing outside Apartment 5C looking like the least intimidating vigilante in New York.
Pink satin pajamas.
Messy chestnut hair.
Fluffy bunny slippers.
And a broom held diagonally across her chest like a medieval spear.
She had expected a college student.
Maybe a musician.
Possibly an inconsiderate businessman who believed insomnia qualified as a personality.
She had not expected the man who opened the door.
He was tall enough that Elena instinctively lifted her chin.
Thirty-something, maybe.
Black hair pushed back from a face that looked too composed for three in the morning. A fitted black shirt covered broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal dark tattoos winding down one forearm.
He wore black trousers.
Black shoes.
A watch that probably cost more than Elena's car.
Three men stood behind him.
All dressed in black.
All silent.
All looking at Elena as though she had just walked into the wrong church during confession.
Elena tightened her grip on the broom.
"You," she said.
The man's eyebrow lifted.
"Me."
"You live here?"
"For the moment."
"Then you're the problem."
One of the men behind him coughed.
It sounded suspiciously like he had swallowed a laugh.
The tall man's gaze drifted to Elena's bunny slippers.
Then to the broom.
Then back to her furious face.
"You came upstairs alone?"
The question irritated her more than it frightened her.
"Did you expect me to bring a marching band?"
"No."
"Good. Because they're asleep. Like normal people."
The man behind him coughed again.
This time the tall man glanced over his shoulder.
The coughing stopped immediately.
Interesting.
Elena pointed the broom toward the ceiling beneath his apartment.
"For three weeks, you've been pacing all night. Dragging furniture. Dropping things. Whatever you're doing up here, could you possibly do it during hours when civilized people are conscious?"
The man's expression did not change.
"What apartment?"
"Four-B."
Something flickered in his eyes.
So fast Elena almost missed it.
"Directly below this one?"
"That's usually how floors work."
Another man in black lowered his face, apparently fighting for his life not to smile.
The tall stranger ignored him.
"Your name?"
Elena stared.
"No."
"No?"
"You don't need my name to stop stomping."
His mouth moved slightly.
Not quite a smile.
"Fair."
"I'm glad we've reached an understanding."
"We haven't."
Elena blinked.
He shifted his attention over her shoulder.
Every trace of amusement disappeared.
Elena noticed it immediately.
His body had not moved, but something about him had.
His shoulders became still.
His eyes sharpened.
The men behind him noticed too.
One subtly moved toward the interior wall.
Another glanced toward the hallway.
The atmosphere changed so suddenly Elena felt it along her arms.
The tall man asked, "Does anyone know you're up here?"
"What?"
"Did you tell anyone you were coming upstairs?"
"No. Why would I?"
His gaze stayed fixed beyond her.
"Get inside."
Elena actually laughed.
"No."
"Now."
"I came here because you're keeping me awake, not because I wanted to be kidnapped before breakfast."
"Elena."
Her irritation vanished.
She had never told him her name.
The broom lowered an inch.
"How do you know my name?"
He did not answer.
Instead he stepped forward.
Elena backed away automatically.
Then he reached past her—not touching her—and pulled the apartment door wider.
"Inside."
She followed his gaze.
The hallway behind her looked empty.
Warm sconces.
Cream walls.
Marble floor.
Elevator twenty feet away.
Nothing unusual.
Then Elena noticed the elevator indicator.
The red number had stopped changing.
It read 5.
But the doors had not opened.
The man beside her murmured, "Marco."
One of the men behind him reached inside his jacket.
Elena's stomach tightened.
"What is happening?"
"Inside."
"No. Tell me why you know my name."
He finally looked at her.
"Because someone has been asking about the woman in Apartment 4B."
For the first time that night, Elena forgot she was angry.
"Who?"
"We don't know yet."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
The elevator chimed.
Every man behind him changed position.
Elena instinctively stepped toward the doorway.
The doors opened.
No one came out.
The elevator was empty.
The tall man's jaw tightened.
"Marco, check it."
The youngest of the three men approached carefully.
Elena's heartbeat became loud enough to compete with the imaginary marching band she had mentioned earlier.
Marco looked inside.
"Empty."
"Hold the doors."
The tall man looked down at Elena.
"Come in."
This time she did.
Not because she trusted him.
Because for the first time she realized he was afraid of something.
Not for himself.
For her.
The door closed.
Elena stood inside Apartment 5C and immediately understood why the nightly sounds had been strange.
There was almost no furniture.
A long table occupied the center of the living room.
Three laptops sat open.
Photographs were arranged across the table.
Printed floor plans.
Maps.
Names.
License plates.
A stack of building records.
Elena took one step closer.
Then stopped.
There was a photograph of her building.
Another of the side entrance.
Another of the parking garage.
Then Elena saw herself.
A grainy photo showed her leaving the lobby carrying groceries.
Another showed her sitting beside the window of a coffee shop.
Another showed her outside her office.
Her skin turned cold.
"What the hell is this?"
The tall man moved between her and the table.
"You weren't supposed to see that."
"Apparently tonight is full of things I wasn't supposed to see."
"Elena—"
"Stop saying my name like we're friends."
One of the men murmured, "Boss."
Elena looked at him.
Boss.
The word landed differently than it should have.
She turned back to the stranger.
"Who are you?"
He hesitated.
"My name is Adrian Vale."
Marco gave Adrian a look as if even saying that much was unusual.
Elena knew the surname.
Anyone who read New York business pages knew it.
Vale Holdings owned hotels, restaurants, construction firms, nightclubs, freight companies, luxury buildings.
Adrian Vale rarely gave interviews.
Photographs of him appeared beside headlines involving billion-dollar developments and rumors nobody had ever proved.
And other rumors.
The kind whispered rather than printed.
Elena stared.
"Vale."
"Yes."
"As in Vale Holdings?"
"Yes."
"As in the man half the city thinks is—"
"Don't finish that sentence."
"Why? Mafia boss?"
The room went silent.
Marco looked at the ceiling.
Another man closed his eyes briefly.
Adrian simply stared at her.
Elena tightened her arms around the broom.
"Great. Fantastic. My noisy neighbor is apparently organized crime."
"Allegedly."
She almost laughed despite herself.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"No."
"Why do you have photographs of me?"
Adrian walked toward the table.
Three weeks earlier, he explained, one of his people had discovered that a man connected to a rival criminal organization had rented a storage unit under Elena's name.
Elena stared at him.
"I've never rented a storage unit."
"I know."
"How?"
"We checked."
"You checked me?"
"We checked everything."
"That's incredibly disturbing."
"It was necessary."
"To you."
"To keep you alive."
The words stopped her.
Adrian pulled a photograph from the table.
It showed a man entering Elena's building.
Tall.
Gray coat.
Baseball cap.
She did not recognize him.
"He has followed you six times in twelve days."
Elena looked again.
"You're lying."
"I wish I were."
"Why me?"
"We're trying to answer that."
"And the pacing?"
"My people have been rotating security upstairs."
She looked at the nearly empty room.
"So you've been watching me."
"We've been watching the people watching you."
Elena's mouth went dry.
Her anger was still there, but fear had begun threading through it.
She remembered the times she had felt someone behind her on the sidewalk.
The car that had remained parked outside her office three evenings in a row.
The stranger in the grocery store who had appeared in three separate aisles.
She had dismissed every one.
New York made people paranoid if they let it.
Apparently paranoia occasionally had excellent reasons.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because people behave differently when they know they're being protected."
"Protected?"
Adrian looked at her bunny slippers.
"You came upstairs carrying a broom."
"That doesn't answer anything."
"It answers more than you realize."
The third man approached.
"Adrian."
He held out a phone.
A security-camera image filled the screen.
Elena's lobby.
A man stood near the mailboxes.
Gray coat.
Baseball cap.
The same man from the photograph.
The timestamp read 3:11 a.m.
One minute before Elena knocked on Adrian's door.
Elena's chest tightened.
"He was downstairs?"
"He still is," the man said.
Adrian took the phone.
"Lock the lobby."
"We did."
"Rear entrance?"
"Covered."
Elena looked between them.
"You cannot lock everyone inside a building."
Adrian met her eyes.
"Tonight I can."
Her phone buzzed.
Everyone looked at it.
Elena almost dropped the broom.
The screen showed an unknown number.
One message.
WHERE DID YOU GO?
Adrian held out his hand.
"Give me the phone."
Elena did not move.
Another message appeared.
I CAN HEAR YOU UPSTAIRS.
Marco whispered something under his breath.
Adrian's calm expression hardened into something Elena had not seen before.
He took one step toward her.
"Elena."
She handed him the phone.
He read both messages.
"How long have you had this number?"
"Six years."
"Who has it?"
"Friends. Work. Family."
"Family?"
"My mother. My sister."
"Anyone else?"
"My landlord probably."
Adrian looked toward one of his men.
"Find every place that number appears."
The man nodded.
Elena crossed her arms.
"I am not staying here."
"You absolutely are."
"I have work."
"You don't."
"You don't get to decide that."
"You'll call in sick."
"I am not calling in sick because a billionaire criminal decided my life needs scheduling."
Something almost softened in Adrian's expression.
Then his phone vibrated.
He looked down.
His face went completely still.
Marco noticed.
"What?"
Adrian turned the screen away from Elena.
That made her immediately step closer.
"What is it?"
"Nothing."
"Do you genuinely think saying 'nothing' after all of this will work?"
"Yes."
"It won't."
She moved around him.
Adrian caught her gently by the upper arm.
The touch shocked both of them.
His hand loosened instantly.
For half a second, they stood too close.
Elena could smell clean soap and something darker, cedar maybe.
His eyes dropped to hers.
Not threatening now.
Concerned.
"Please," he said quietly.
The word surprised her more than anything else.
Elena stopped resisting.
"Tell me."
He exhaled.
Then turned the phone.
A photograph had just arrived from an unknown encrypted number.
It showed Elena standing outside Apartment 5C.
Broom in her hands.
Pink pajamas.
Bunny slippers.
The photograph had been taken less than five minutes earlier.
From the far end of the same hallway.
Elena stared at it.
Beneath the photograph were five words.
SHE WAS NEVER THE TARGET.
Elena swallowed.
"Then who was?"
Before Adrian could answer, the lights inside Apartment 5C went out.
Someone knocked once on the door.
Then a man's voice spoke from the hallway.
"Adrian Vale."
Elena froze.
The voice continued.
May you like
"We came for the woman downstairs."
And the door handle slowly began to turn.
