PART 1

The rain fell in sheets against the floor to ceiling windows, washing Chicago into a blurred watercolor of neon and shadow.

Sixty floors below, the city crawled through evening gridlock, but inside Elias Mercer’s penthouse, the temperature remained exactly sixty nine degrees and the silence felt expensive.

Controlled.

Artificial.

Dead.

Elias sat behind his mahogany desk staring at a decrypted laptop screen.

A supply chain bottleneck in Miami.

Three million dollars trapped in containers that should have been moving north forty eight hours ago.

Usually, problems involving seven figures sharpened him.

Tonight, he had read the same row on the spreadsheet eleven times.

He knew because he had been counting.

His dark eyes shifted toward the reflection in the glass covering a framed photograph on the opposite wall.

Not the photograph itself.

A black and white Chicago skyline.

He watched the reflection behind him.

The kitchen door.

The hallway.

Movement.

Her movement.

Fourteen steps from the kitchen to the windows.

She always started with the left pane.

She would pause at the third because there was a faint streak only she seemed able to see.

Then she would move right.

Nakia King.

Twenty six years old.

Chronically exhausted.

His live out housekeeper for eight months.

The fifth person to hold the position in two years.

He had fired the first four.

One stole a watch.

One asked too many questions about the men arriving after midnight.

Two were so afraid of Elias they broke things whenever he entered a room.

Nakia never shook.

Never snooped.

Never asked why one of his men occasionally arrived with blood on his collar and left without it.

Most infuriatingly, she did not seem impressed by him.

Or frightened.

She treated the head of one of Chicago’s most powerful criminal organizations like a difficult employer who needed reminding not to leave espresso cups on antique wood.

She hummed terrible pop songs while cleaning.

She wore one earbud because she claimed two would be “professionally irresponsible.”

She rearranged his refrigerator.

Once, after discovering that he had survived for three days on coffee, whiskey, and half a steak, she had placed a bowl of soup in front of him and said, “Eat.”

No one told Elias Mercer to eat.

He had eaten.

He hated that memory.

He hated more that he remembered it almost every night.

“Elias.”

Her voice cut through the static in his head.

He looked up.

Nakia stood in his office doorway with a microfiber cloth over one shoulder and glass cleaner in her hand.

Faded jeans.

Oversized gray sweater.

Dark curls twisted into a careless knot.

One white earbud.

“I need to leave early tonight.”

Elias blinked.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said I need to leave early.”

She walked farther into the room.

“I’ve stayed late every night this week because your mysterious collection of men in expensive coats apparently doesn’t know how to use coasters.

Tonight I’m leaving at five.”

Elias leaned back.

The leather of his chair creaked.

“I pay you a ridiculous premium for flexibility.”

“And I appreciate that.”

“If I require you at seven, you remain until seven.”

Nakia sighed.

A deep, disappointed sound.

She crossed her arms.

“Elias.”

There it was.

His first name delivered like a warning to a misbehaving child.

“I’m leaving at five.”

“Why?”

Her eyebrows lifted.

His did not.

He almost never asked why.

Nakia studied him for half a second.

Then shrugged.

“I have a date tonight. I need time to get ready.”

Elias stopped moving.

Not dramatically.

Not visibly, perhaps, to anyone who did not know how dangerous stillness could be.

His breathing simply ceased.

The gold pen rotating between his fingers stopped.

A date.

He stared at her.

“A date.”

“Yes.”

“With whom?”

The question escaped before he could stop it.

Nakia smiled slowly.

“Are you interviewing me?”

“I asked a question.”

“And I’m deciding whether it deserves an answer.”

His jaw hardened.

She seemed to enjoy that.

“His name is Brendan.”

Brendan.

The name immediately irritated him.

“He teaches middle school history.”

Worse.

“We met at the laundromat.”

Elias imagined a man in khaki pants holding a basket of warm towels and smiling too much.

He despised him on principle.

“A laundromat.”

“That’s where people without private laundry services go.”

“How romantic.”

“He made me laugh.”

Something inside Elias tightened.

It was embarrassingly physical.

A fist beneath his ribs.

Nakia continued, unaware or pretending to be.

“So I’m leaving at five.

You’ll survive without me distributing the silver forks.”

She turned.

“Nakia.”

She glanced back.

Elias had no idea what he intended to say.

Don’t go.

Cancel.

You work for me.

None of them were acceptable.

None were remotely sane.

Finally he said, “You missed a spot on the window.”

Her eyes narrowed.

Then she looked at the immaculate glass.

Then at him.

“You are a deeply annoying man.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Elias remained seated.

For almost a minute, nothing moved.

Then he looked down.

The heavy gold pen in his hand had bent nearly in half.

At exactly five minutes before five, Elias heard heels.

Not Nakia’s usual sneakers.

He was standing at the bar, pouring whiskey he did not intend to drink.

He turned.

And forgot what he was doing.

Nakia stood near the entryway fastening a small earring.

She wore a dark green dress.

Nothing extravagant.

Nothing provocative.

Simple fabric falling just below her knees, long sleeves, a soft neckline.

But the woman who spent her days hidden inside oversized sweaters suddenly looked painfully alive.

Her curls fell around her shoulders.

There was color on her lips.

A little gold around her eyes.

And for the first time in eight months, Elias realized he had become accustomed to looking at her without truly allowing himself to see her.

That had been a mistake.

Nakia noticed him staring.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That didn’t look like nothing.”

Elias lifted the whiskey.

“You clean up adequately.”

She stared.

Then laughed.

Actually laughed.

“You know what?

That may be the closest you’ve ever come to complimenting another human being.”

“I compliment people.”

“You once told Marco his funeral suit was well tailored.”

“It was.”

“He wasn’t dead.”

“He was late.”

She shook her head, smiling.

Her phone buzzed.

She looked down.

Something warm crossed her face.

“He’s downstairs.”

Elias’s grip tightened around the glass.

“Brendan.”

“Yes, Elias.

Brendan.”

“You barely know him.”

“That’s generally why people go on first dates.”

“What car does he drive?”

She stared.

“Why?”

“Statistical curiosity.”

“You have no statistical curiosity.”

“What if he’s irresponsible?”

“He drives a twelve year old Honda.”

Elias looked offended.

Nakia laughed harder.

“Good night.”

“Nakia.”

Her hand rested on the door.

He wanted to say something clever.

Something dismissive.

Instead he heard himself ask, quietly, “Do you have his license plate?”

Her smile disappeared.

“Elias.”

“For security.”

“I am going to dinner, not entering witness protection.”

“I have enemies.”

“You have paranoia.”

“I have survived because of paranoia.”

Something in her expression softened.

For one dangerous second, neither spoke.

Then she said, “I’ll be fine.”

Three ordinary words.