Chapter 3 3

The Lincoln's tires crunched over broken glass and worse.

Frankie kept his speed at a crawl, high beams cutting through the gloom of the abandoned parking structure. Water dripped from somewhere overhead-steady, maddening, the sound of a building surrendering to entropy. He scanned the shadows for movement, for the shapes of men who might be watching from behind concrete pillars, and found only darkness.

The xenon headlights hit them from behind.

Frankie flinched, throwing up a hand against the glare in his mirrors. The light was violent, invasive, pinning the Lincoln like an insect on a board.

Then he heard the engine.

That distinctive Bugatti wail, pitched lower now, almost playful. The silver Chiron emerged from the blackness of the structure's depths, headlights dimming as it settled into position across from them, nose to nose like dueling pistols.

Evelyn opened her door.

"Miss-" Frankie's hand reached for the gear shift, some instinct screaming at him to reverse, to flee, to get her away from the man who'd publicly humiliated her not two hours before.

She was already walking.

Her heels found the standing water on the concrete floor and didn't hesitate. She moved toward the Bugatti with the stride of a woman approaching a familiar appointment, her silk dress darkened at the hem where it had dragged through filth she hadn't bothered to avoid.

The gull-wing door lifted.

Fitzgerald Peck stepped out, and the transformation was instantaneous. The rage was gone. The flushed cheeks, the locked jaw, the performance of wounded pride-all of it had evaporated. In its place was something Frankie had never seen on a Peck face: deference.

Fitz moved to Evelyn and stopped three feet away. He bowed his head, a gesture that brought his eyes level with her collarbone.

"The wind," he said. "You were in it too long. Here."

He produced a black cashmere coat from somewhere, held it open for her. Evelyn turned, let him settle it over her shoulders. The movement was practiced, intimate, the choreography of long habit.

"Your tearing was excessive," she said. "The third rip was unnecessary theater."

Fitz's mouth twitched. He shrugged, the gesture loose and unguarded. "Wall Street expects spectacle. If I'd been restrained, they'd have suspected coordination." He smiled, quick and genuine. "I had to sell the crazy, Evie."

Frankie's hands were numb on the wheel.

Evelyn moved to the Bugatti's passenger side. Fitz opened the door for her, handed her a bottle of cold-pressed juice from the center console's refrigerated compartment-green, viscous, the kind of thing that cost twelve dollars at organic markets.

She took it without thanks.

Fitz settled into the driver's seat and woke the dashboard screen. NASDAQ data filled the display, a waterfall of red.

"Down eleven percent," he said. "Brock Group's getting slaughtered. The shorts are piling on."

Evelyn studied the curve. For the first time since Frankie had collected her from JFK that morning, something moved across her face that resembled pleasure.

It was not a smile that invited warmth.

"Media?"

"Exactly as scripted." Fitz pulled up a secondary feed-headlines from the financial press, all variations on the same theme: Brock Family Deception Exposed, Peck Group Victim of Fraudulent Merger Attempt. "They're eating out of our hand. By close of market, Arland Brock will be facing a liquidity crisis."

Evelyn set the juice in the cupholder. "Time for phase two."

"Already?"

"Leak it." She turned to face him, and the interior light caught something in her eyes that made Fitz's hand freeze on the touchscreen. "Let them know. Let Arland know that his daughter orchestrated his humiliation."

Fitz's throat worked. "Evie, if they realize you planned this-if they understand what you are-they won't play by the rules. Private contractors. Asset seizures. They'll come for you with everything."

Evelyn leaned toward him. The space between their seats seemed to compress, to become charged with something that made the air difficult to breathe.

"Fitzgerald." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Do you imagine I returned to play games?"

The name hung between them-her full use of it, the formality that stripped away their familiar address. Fitz's face went pale. He dropped his gaze, nodded once, sharp and military.

"Ten minutes. It'll be on his desk."

Evelyn sat back. In the Lincoln, Frankie watched through two layers of glass, his understanding of reality undergoing fundamental revision. They weren't enemies. They were-what? Partners? Conspirators? The woman he'd pitied as a victim was something else entirely, something his vocabulary didn't contain.

The Bugatti's window descended.

"Frankie." Evelyn's voice carried clearly across the space between vehicles. "Return to Fifth Avenue. Tell the housekeeper I'll call on the family personally. Later."

Frankie nodded, automatic, grateful. His hand found the ignition.

"And Frankie?"

"Yes, Miss?"

"Drive carefully. The streets are dangerous tonight."

She didn't smile. The warning was sincere.

Frankie put the Lincoln in drive and didn't look back. The ramp up to street level seemed longer than the descent, the daylight blinding when he finally emerged.

In the structure's depths, Fitz restarted the Bugatti's engine.

"Where now?" he asked. "Fifth Avenue? Do we finish it?"

Evelyn was silent. Her finger traced a pattern on the window, following the condensation of her own breath.

Then she spoke a string of numbers. Coordinates. Fitz recognized the format-longitude and latitude, precise to six decimal places.

His hands tightened on the wheel.

He knew those coordinates. Every Brock family insider knew them, though no one spoke of them aloud. The old estate. The place where Hermina Castro had been found ten years ago, hanging from the chandelier in the master bedroom, her daughter's eighth birthday party waiting downstairs.

Fitz said nothing. He entered the coordinates into the navigation system and accelerated toward the tunnel that would take them under the East River, toward Long Island, toward the grave of everything Evelyn had been before.

She leaned her head against the glass. In the strobing light of the tunnel, her hand found her left wrist, fingers moving over skin in a gesture that Fitz had seen before-a caress of old scar tissue, a wound that predated their alliance by years.

The Bugatti ate miles.

Above them, the sky was the color of old bruises, and the city they left behind was already beginning to burn.