16. NIKOLAI #2
Then I slipped the phone back into my coat and turned for the stairs, descending quickly, head down.
No need to be noticed.
I pushed through the front vestibule door just as headlights swept around the corner. The SUV came to a halt in front of me, and I slid in.
Rory didn’t say a word—just pulled away from the curb and drove down the street.
I exhaled hard, flexing my jaw. My knuckles still ached from restraint, and I wanted to hit something again. But instead, I reached for my phone and opened the app I’d been living in lately.
The feed from the third-floor hallway of Lyla’s apartment building came online.
There was a nice wide-angle lens expertly installed above the stairwell, one of several I’d had my team place throughout the building’s common areas.
I’d insisted on full coverage—everywhere she might pass through. Anywhere someone might hurt her.
The hallway remained empty for several minutes. Then a shape appeared from the stairwell—tall, hooded, gloved. One of mine.
Another followed behind, carrying a canvas duffle.
They both paused briefly outside 3B, then slipped inside.
I couldn’t see what happened beyond the threshold of the apartment—there was no camera in the unit itself—but I didn’t need to. I’d seen enough of these jobs to know the choreography.
One man would guard the ground-floor entryway, wipe it down, and repair the latch I had busted.
The other two would handle the body bag, sanitize the scene, and remove every trace of evidence that Epstein had been killed or I had been there.
Any local camera footage, if it existed, would be wiped by the guys back at the office.
Epstein’s apartment would appear undisturbed, as if he could walk in at any second.
Instead, he’d be ash in the East River before sunrise.
I swiped left on the app, pulling up Lyla’s apartment.
She was in the living room—hair wild, shock written all over her face. She paced like a caged animal, chewing her thumbnail and gripping her phone like a lifeline. No one else was home.
She went to the door and checked the lock, then the deadbolt. Twice.
When she turned back toward the futon, she froze.
She leaned back against the door and slid down, her ass hitting the floor with a jolt. She clutched her knees to her chest.
Her body was trembling.
Good.
Let her be afraid.
Let her know what I was, because she needed to understand what it would cost her to have a man like me hovering in her orbit.
I switched views again to the third-floor hallway.
Still clear.
I swiped through the camera feeds for the front and back entrances. There was nothing unusual.
Another swipe, and I was back to Lyla, who was still sitting on the floor and leaning against the door. She wasn’t crying, just muttering to herself and holding onto her knees for dear life.
When I checked the building’s front entrance camera again, I saw my guy touch his earpiece, say something, and then head out the door.
He wouldn’t go far, but he’d ensure the area was secure and update the men inside working on cleanup.
Seconds later, red-and-blue lights flashed just outside the vestibule windows.
“Too fucking soon!” I cursed under my breath. Rory glanced at me but said nothing.
Two NYPD officers stopped at the apartment building’s call box.
They buzzed in, waited a beat, and then entered.
When they started moving up the stairs, I switched to the view of the third-floor hallway. They passed Epstein’s apartment without pausing and headed straight for the fourth floor.
I pulled up Lyla’s living-room feed again. She was still pacing, rubbing her forehead. Then came the knock on her door.
She paused but opened it.
Hmm. She’d actually called the police and was about to report what had happened.
The officers stepped just inside her door.
I zoomed in to see her better. Her eyes were wide as she began to speak.
With her hands flying and her voice shaking, she attempted to explain what had happened, describing how a man had attacked her in the stairwell, how he’d dragged her toward 3B.
Then she hesitated, her brows drawing tight before she launched into an explanation of how another man who’d been stalking her for days had come out of nowhere and intervened, how he had fought her attacker off and broken his neck.
Lyla wrung her hands and walked back and forth across the small living room while the officers pressed for more details—asking her how long the stalker had been following her, how well she knew him.
She didn’t have much to offer but could only say that she’d sensed him tracking her and that he’d confronted her a couple of times but never laid a hand on her.
Thankfully, she didn’t mention the coffee shop. Good.
The younger cop—a tall, clean-cut man—looked her over skeptically.
Asked if she had any injuries.
She said no.
He asked her why she’d been out so late on a Wednesday night in this neighborhood.
Lyla gulped and gave him a vague answer about getting off work late.
He pressed her with more questions, making her even more fidgety, then asked her if she’d been drinking or had taken any other substances.
Lyla shook her head and bit out a “No” in that bratty tone I’d come to recognize.
Then she tried to circle the conversation back to the attack and the murder she’d just witnessed.
The older officer rubbed a hand over his chin and suggested that Lyla show them where the altercation took place, indicating they might also pay the neighbor a visit.
Lyla’s face contorted in frustration as she rolled her eyes. She was probably realizing how bizarre her story sounded.
Once they got to the hallway outside of 3B, Lyla reenacted the encounter, putting on quite the performance. The policemen listened and looked around, but of course, there was nothing to see.
The younger officer rapped his knuckles on the door of Epstein’s apartment, and it swung open. He pulled a flashlight from his belt and shone it around.
Empty.
Dark, cluttered, lifeless.
No corpse.
No signs of a struggle.
My guys were long gone.
The older cop scratched his head. The other turned back to Lyla, looking even more dubious than before.
“I swear, he was here,” she said, her voice breaking. “He tried to drag me in. Then the other guy…he killed him! And…and…I ran.”
Silence.
The older officer looked at the younger one, then sighed and murmured something into his radio while his partner took some notes.
I watched Lyla’s face fall, watched as the disbelief twisted into something close to humiliation.
They didn’t believe her.
They stepped back and shut the door of 3B.
“It’s not illegal to leave your door unlocked or cracked open. Stupid in this part of the city but not our issue,” the younger cop said.
“Without any evidence of there being a crime—and unless you’re filing a report against someone specific—there’s not much we can do.”
He handed her a card and told her to call if anything else happened.
They left without looking back.
As soon as they were in the stairwell, her shoulders collapsed.
She stood in the hallway for a long moment before going back to her apartment.
Once inside, she went to the kitchen and opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of vodka, and took a long swig.
Didn’t even flinch.
I didn’t know whether to be impressed or worried.
But at least for tonight she was safe.
Tomorrow, I’d have to decide what to do with her.
Because no matter what I told myself, she was now my responsibility. Her fate was in my hands.
But for now, I wanted nothing more than to get home and take my own shot of vodka—or three—so I would have some semblance of a chance at getting a decent night’s sleep.
For a few more minutes, I stared at her through the screen, brushing my thumb over the image as if I could touch her.
What the fuck was I doing?
She was a complication.
An indulgence.
A very pretty liability wrapped in stubbornness and sweet Tennessee sunshine.
I should’ve walked away the second I tasted her.
But I hadn’t.
And now I couldn’t.
And that made her dangerous.
Not to herself.
To me.