(Liam Romano's POV)
The SUV did not take the penthouse. That place had become a theatre for my humiliation—an echo chamber of Hailey's absence and the brittle architecture of my own exposed lies. Nor did it drop me at one of the legitimate offices where polished glass and practiced smiles masked the grind. The suit could wait. The performance was over; the work had to begin.
I told the driver to head for the docks. Pier 7. The old Norton warehouse — the place where everything began to splinter and where, if anything was left of me, it would have to be reassembled.
The ride was as silent as a closed tomb. The engine hummed, an indifferent monotone beneath the thunder in my skull. Five million
was not a ransom; it was a tax. A correction to an account someone else thought they'd balance
