The building in Tribeca was a converted warehouse of dark brick and steel beams, the kind of place that screamed quiet wealth.
Security was everywhere.
But subtle.
Cameras watched every entrance.
Men in expensive suits stood near the doors pretending to be doormen.
Ethan arrived exactly at eight.
His charcoal suit fit perfectly, tailored so precisely it looked like part of his body. The watch on his wrist cost enough to buy a small apartment.
The doorman studied him carefully.
“Mr. Konstantin?” the man asked politely.
Ethan gave a small nod.
The doorman checked a tablet and stepped aside.
“Penthouse,” he said respectfully. “Ms. Rossetti is expecting you.”
Ethan stepped into the elevator.
As the doors closed, he took one slow breath.
The Glock was back at the hotel.
Bringing
