The Price of her

New York City never slept.

Rain swept across the city that night, coating the streets in a glossy sheen beneath the glow of streetlights and towering buildings. Far below, headlights crawled through the darkness while pedestrians hurried beneath umbrellas, desperate to escape the storm. Thirty-seven floors above it all, Dante Lawrence watched the city through walls of glass. New York never stopped moving. Neither did he.

Dante sat behind the wide black desk at the center of his office, his attention fixed on the figures spread across the three monitors in front of him.

Numbers. Contracts. Projections. Deadlines.

Things that made sense.

Unlike people, numbers didn’t lie unless someone made them.

His eyes moved over another column before drifting briefly toward the time in the corner of the screen.

10:34 p.m.

He had arrived shortly before seven that morning.

Nearly sixteen hours ago.

And he hadn’t stepped outside the building once.

Not that he cared.

The thirty-seventh floor of Lawrence Global Group had fallen silent hours ago. The reception desk beyond his office doors sat abandoned, the hallways were empty, and most of the lights throughout the building had already gone dark.

The employees who normally hurried between offices carrying tablets, folders, and cups of coffee had disappeared one by one as evening turned into night.

Dante hadn’t.

He rarely did.

There was always another contract requiring his approval. Another investment to review. Another problem someone else couldn’t solve without bringing it to him.

Dante preferred the building after everyone left anyway.

No pointless conversations.

No executives appearing at his door with problems they should’ve been capable of solving themselves.

No carefully rehearsed compliments from people hoping to earn his approval.

Just silence.

And work.

He returned his attention to the screen.

A quiet knock sounded against the office door.

Dante didn’t look up.

“Come in.”

The door opened.

Herman Angelos walked inside carrying a folder in one hand and two cups of coffee in the other.

“You know,” Herman said, setting one beside Dante, “normal people go home.”

Dante continued reading.

“Then go home.”

“I would. Unfortunately, I work for someone who apparently considers sleep a character flaw.”

That finally earned him a glance.

Herman smiled.

Most people wouldn’t have.

There weren’t many employees at Lawrence Global Group who would walk into Dante Lawrence’s office after ten at night and make jokes about him.

Actually, there was only one.

Herman Drew Angelos had been around too long to be intimidated by the expensive suits, cold expressions, or reputation attached to the Lawrence name.

He remembered Dante before any of those things existed.

Sometimes Dante considered that unfortunate.

“Why are you still here?” Dante asked.

“Because you are.”

“That’s your first mistake.”

“I’ve made worse.”

Dante reached for the coffee.

Black.

No sugar.

Herman knew better than to bring him anything else.

Herman dropped the folder onto the desk.

“These need your attention.”

Dante’s eyes moved to it.

“What are they?”

“Outstanding private accounts.”

The atmosphere changed.

Not dramatically.

Dante didn’t need dramatic.

He closed the report on his computer and pulled the folder toward himself.

“How many?”

“Seven.”

“How many are late?”

“Three.”

Dante opened the folder.

Names.

Numbers.

Dates.

Promises.

People had an interesting relationship with borrowed money. They were grateful when they needed it and offended when someone expected it returned.

Dante turned a page.

“Marino?”

“Paid this morning.”

Another page.

“Kessler?”

“Asked for another week.”

“No.”

“I assumed you’d say that.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Occasionally I enjoy pretending you have mercy.”

Dante gave him a flat look.

Herman lifted both hands.

“Right. Terrible idea.”

Dante continued.

Then his hand stopped.

ANDREW AUGUSTUS O’NEAL.

Dante’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the name.

“How much?”

Herman didn’t need to ask what he meant.

“Nine hundred thousand.”

Dante’s gaze moved to the amount printed beside Andrew’s name.

$900,000.

Then to the date beneath it.

His expression didn’t change.

“Two months?”

Herman leaned against the edge of the desk.

“Two months.”

“Why wasn’t this handled?”

“We gave him additional time.”

Dante slowly raised his eyes.

“We?”

Herman sighed.

“You gave him additional time.”

Dante remembered.

Andrew O’Neal had requested an extension.

Then another.

Both had been granted.

Dante didn’t grant third chances.

“Has he contacted us?”

“Three days ago.”

“And?”

“He doesn’t have it.”

Dante leaned back in his chair.

Outside the windows, New York continued moving as though nothing had happened.

“He knew the terms.”

“He did.”

“He knew the deadline.”

“Yes.”

“And he still hasn’t paid.”

Herman was quiet for a moment.

“He has a family, Dante.”

“So do most men who owe me money.”

“I know.”

Dante closed the folder.

His gaze briefly shifted toward the corner of his office.

A silver-framed photograph rested almost hidden among shelves filled with awards and books.

Three people stood in it.

A dark-haired boy between his parents.

His mother’s hand rested on his shoulder.

His father was smiling.

Dante looked away.

“Bring me O’Neal.”

Herman’s expression hardened.

“Dante—”

“Tonight.”

Herman glanced toward the clock.

“It’s almost eleven.”

“I’m aware.”

“You want me to speak with him first?”

“No.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

Herman knew that tone.

The conversation was over.

Dante reopened the report on his computer.

“Bring him to me.”

Herman picked up the folder.

“Tonight? As in right now?”

Dante’s dark eyes lifted to his.

“Do you see another meaning to the word?”

Herman exhaled through his nose.

“No. Just checking.”

“Then stop checking.”

Herman tucked the folder beneath his arm.

“And if he still can’t pay?”

“He’s had two months to pay.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Dante stared at him.

Herman didn’t back down.

He rarely did.

Finally, Dante said, “Then Andrew O’Neal and I will have a different conversation.”

Herman was quiet.

Dante noticed.

“Something else?”

“Several things, actually.”

“Then speak.”

“Your grandfather called.”

Dante’s attention returned to his computer.

“That’s not my problem.”

“He called six times.”

“Sounds like his problem.”

Herman stared at him.

Dante ignored him.

“You know he’s going to keep calling.”

“Then turn off the phone.”

“It’s your phone he’s calling.”

Dante’s fingers stopped over the keyboard.

That explained why Herman looked so irritated.

“What does he want?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“Then it isn’t important.”

“He specifically said—and I’m quoting here—‘Tell my stubborn grandson that avoiding me will not make me disappear.’”

Dante’s expression remained blank.

Herman waited.

Nothing.

“That’s it?” Herman asked.

“What response were you expecting?”

“I don’t know. Emotion?”

“Try someone else.”

Herman gave a quiet laugh.

“There’s the Dante Lawrence everyone knows and loves.”

“No one loves me.”

The words came easily.

Too easily.

Herman’s amusement disappeared.

Dante noticed that too.

He wished he hadn’t.

“Don’t,” Dante said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

Herman studied him for another second before deciding against whatever he’d been about to say.

Dante appreciated that.

There were subjects Herman understood not to touch.

Family was usually one of them.

Usually.

“David wants you at the estate Sunday,” Herman said instead.

“No.”

“I told him you’d say that.”

“Good.”

“He told me to tell you that wasn’t a request.”

Dante finally looked at him.

Herman shrugged.

“His words.”

“Remind my grandfather that I’m twenty-eight.”

“I don’t think he’s forgotten.”

“And I don’t take orders from him.”

“I think he’s aware of that too.”

“Then this conversation is pointless.”

“Most conversations with you are.”

Dante’s phone vibrated against the desk.

He looked at the screen.

One of the company’s senior executives.

Dante answered.

“Lawrence.”

Herman started toward the door but Dante lifted a finger, signaling him to wait.

“Mr. Lawrence.” The executive’s voice was tense. “I’m sorry to bother you this late.”

“You’re already bothering me. Get to the point.”

Herman covered a smile with his coffee cup.

“We have an issue with the Hudson development.”

Dante’s expression sharpened.

“What issue?”

“The contractor informed us tonight that they’re expecting another six-week delay.”

“No.”

A pause.

“I’m sorry?”

“There won’t be a six-week delay.”

“They’re saying the materials—”

“I read their contract.”

Another silence.

Dante stood.

At his full height, the desk suddenly seemed too small for him. He walked toward the windows, listening as the executive attempted to explain.

The Hudson development was one of Lawrence Global Group’s largest projects that year: a luxury hotel and residential complex carrying the Lawrence name.

Dante knew every deadline.

Every contract.

Every major expenditure.

His employees had learned very quickly that walking into his office unprepared was a mistake they rarely made twice.

“The supplier problem was reported three weeks ago,” Dante said. “Why am I hearing about it tonight?”

“We believed it had been resolved.”

“You believed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did anyone confirm?”

Silence.

Dante’s jaw tightened.

“Call Mercer.”

“At this hour?”

Dante looked at the city beyond the glass.

“Is there a reason his telephone stops working after ten?”

“No, sir.”

“Then call him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Move the secondary supplier forward. I want revised numbers on my desk by eight tomorrow morning.”

“That might be difficult—”

“Then you have until seven-thirty.”

Herman looked down, hiding another smile.

“Understood.”

“And Daniel?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t bring me a problem three weeks after you discover it.”

Dante ended the call.

Herman waited approximately two seconds.

“Seven-thirty?”

Dante returned to his desk.

“He complained.”

“So you gave him less time.”

“Correct.”

“Remind me never to complain.”

“You complain every day.”

“Yet somehow I’m still employed.”

“An oversight.”

Herman grinned.

Dante sat again.

This was why Herman was useful.

Everyone else entered Dante’s office already afraid of saying the wrong thing. Fear made people careful, but it also made them stupid.

They agreed when they should question.

They concealed mistakes.

They told powerful men what they believed those men wanted to hear.

Herman didn’t.

He had been irritating Dante since they were children.

Dante suspected he’d continue until one of them died.

Herman’s phone vibrated.

He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the screen.

The amusement disappeared from his face.

Dante noticed.

“What?”

Herman looked up.

“They found O’Neal.”

Dante glanced toward the time.

10:58 p.m.

“Where?”

“At home.”

“Good.”

Herman continued reading the message.

“They’re taking him now.”

Dante’s expression didn’t change.

“Tell them to bring him downstairs.”

Herman looked at him.

“You’re serious about doing this tonight.”

Dante’s eyes lifted.

“I was serious the first time.”

“I know.”

“Then why are we discussing it again?”

Herman stared at him for another moment before looking back at his phone.

“I’ll tell them.”

He typed a response.

A few seconds passed.

Then Herman’s phone vibrated again.

“They’re moving.”

“Good.”

Herman slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“You know his wife is probably going to realize pretty quickly that something happened.”

“That isn’t my concern.”

“And his children?”

Dante’s expression hardened slightly.

“Herman.”

“I’m asking.”

“And I’m telling you it doesn’t change anything.”

“He has a nineteen-year-old daughter.”

Dante remembered the file.

Lisa Elizabeth O’Neal.

He had barely paid attention to the name.

“She’s not responsible for his debt.”

“No,” Herman said. “She isn’t.”

“Then she has nothing to worry about.”

Herman studied him.

For some reason, that look irritated Dante.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Thinking loudly.”

Herman almost smiled.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Dante returned his attention to his computer.

The matter was finished.

Andrew O’Neal would arrive soon.

His phone vibrated again.

This time the message wasn’t from Lawrence Global Group.

Dante read it once.

His expression hardened.

Herman noticed immediately.

“What?”

Dante stood.

“We have another problem.”

The humor vanished from Herman’s face.

“What kind?”

“The kind that doesn’t belong upstairs.”

The elevator descended.

Thirty-seven.

Thirty-six.

Thirty-five.

Dante stood with his hands in the pockets of his trousers while Herman leaned against the mirrored wall beside him.

Neither spoke.

The numbers continued falling.

Twenty.

Nineteen.

Eighteen.

To most employees, Lawrence Global Group ended at the lobby.

Dante’s world did not.

The elevator passed the ground floor.

B1.

B2.

Then stopped.

The doors opened onto a private underground level that wasn’t listed on any directory in the building.

The atmosphere was different here.

No polished reception desk.

No assistants rushing between conference rooms.

No company logo displayed behind marble counters.

Only silence.

Security.

And men who knew exactly who Dante Victor Lawrence was when the cameras weren’t around.

Two guards immediately straightened.

“Mr. Lawrence.”

Dante walked past them.

Herman followed.

At the end of the corridor stood another set of doors.

One opened before Dante reached it.

Inside, three men waited around a long table.

Nobody remained seated when Dante entered.

“Sit.”

They did.

Dante took the chair at the head.

Herman stood to his right.

“What happened?”

A man named Vincent slid a phone across the table.

“We found the leak.”

Dante looked at the screen.

Messages.

Numbers.

Information that never should have left the organization.

“Who?”

“Eric Mason.”

Dante recognized the name.

One of their own.

For six years.

Dante’s expression didn’t move.

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“How certain?”

Vincent hesitated.

Dante noticed.

“Don’t bring me accusations. Bring me facts.”

“We traced the messages. The account is his. Security footage places him at two meetings with Romano’s people.”

Romano.

That name interested him.

“How long?”

“We’re still determining that.”

“Then determine faster.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dante looked at the messages again.

Betrayal.

Such an ugly little word.

People liked to pretend loyalty was permanent.

It wasn’t.

Loyalty lasted until fear became stronger.

Until money became better.

Until someone offered enough power.

Or until someone decided your death benefited them more than your survival.

Dante had learned that lesson young.

Too young.

His thumb stopped against the screen.

For a fraction of a second, he saw twisted metal.

Rain against glass.

A black car destroyed beyond recognition.

Then his father’s name.

Davin Lawrence.

Dante placed the phone onto the table.

“Where is Mason?”

“Being held.”

“Has he spoken?”

“No.”

“He will.”

Herman glanced at Dante but said nothing.

Dante leaned back.

“Find out what Romano knows.”

Vincent nodded.

“And Mason?”

Dante’s gaze settled on him.

“Keep him secured. I want answers before anything else happens.”

“Understood.”

“I want every person he’s contacted in the last twelve months. Every meeting. Every payment. Every account. If he bought coffee with Romano’s money, I want the receipt.”

Vincent almost smiled.

Almost.

“Yes, sir.”

Dante stood.

The others immediately followed.

“And Vincent?”

“Sir?”

“If there’s one leak, assume there are two.”

Vincent’s expression became serious.

“I’ll handle it.”

“No.”

Dante buttoned his suit jacket.

“You’ll investigate it.”

He stepped toward the door.

“I’ll handle it.”

It was after midnight when Dante finally left the building.

A black car waited at the curb.

The driver opened the rear door as Dante approached.

Herman stopped beside him.

“Estate?”

Dante shook his head.

“Penthouse.”

“You’re not going home?”

“The penthouse is a home.”

“No. The penthouse is a very expensive place where you occasionally sleep.”

Dante looked at him.

“Goodnight, Herman.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Goodnight.”

“Sunday. Your grandfather.”

Dante got into the car.

“No.”

Herman leaned toward the open door.

“I’m going to tell him you said yes.”

“I’ll fire you.”

“You’ve been threatening that since we were seventeen.”

Dante reached for the door.

“One day I’ll mean it.”

“No, you won’t.”

The door shut.

Dante watched Herman walk toward another waiting vehicle.

There were very few people on earth who could speak to him like that.

Perhaps only one.

The car pulled into Manhattan traffic.

Dante loosened his tie.

Buildings passed beyond the tinted windows.

Restaurants were still crowded. Music spilled from clubs. People stood beneath neon signs laughing with friends.

Dante watched without interest.

His phone buzzed.

A message from David.

Sunday. Dinner. Don’t make me send someone after you.

Dante stared at it.

Then typed:

Try it.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Dante locked the phone before his grandfather could respond.

For the first time that night, the corner of his mouth almost lifted.

Almost.

The penthouse occupied the upper floors of one of Lawrence Global Group’s residential towers.

Dante entered shortly after twelve-thirty.

Silence greeted him.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the living room, displaying Manhattan like a painting someone had paid too much money for.

Everything inside had been carefully selected.

Italian marble.

Custom furniture.

Original artwork.

A kitchen he rarely used.

A dining table built for twelve people that had never seated more than three.

Dante removed his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair.

He poured himself water.

Not whiskey.

He needed his mind clear.

He always needed his mind clear.

His phone vibrated.

Herman.

Dante considered ignoring it.

Then answered.

“What?”

“I knew you’d still be awake.”

“You saw me twenty minutes ago.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you want?”

“I went through O’Neal’s file.”

Dante walked toward the windows.

“And?”

“There’s more to the loan than I remembered.”

Dante said nothing.

Herman continued.

“Andrew O’Neal wasn’t borrowing it for a business.”

“I know.”

“Most of it went toward his family. Bills. Existing debt.”

Dante watched a helicopter move between buildings in the distance.

“And?”

“The largest portion was education.”

That made Dante pause.

“Whose?”

“His daughter’s.”

Dante’s gaze remained on the city.

“He borrowed that much for tuition?”

“Apparently he wanted her at one of the best schools in the city.”

“That was stupid.”

“Some fathers do stupid things for their children.”

Dante’s expression hardened.

Herman immediately realized what he’d said.

Silence stretched between them.

“Dante—”

“Name.”

“What?”

“The daughter.”

Paper moved on Herman’s end.

“Lisa.”

Dante waited.

“Lisa Elizabeth O’Neal. Nineteen. Second-year student.”

Nineteen.

Young.

Too young to have any involvement in her father’s financial decisions.

“Does she know?”

“About the loan?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like surprises.”

“She’s a college student, Dante.”

“And?”

“And I seriously doubt she’s secretly plotting your downfall between lectures.”

Dante’s expression remained unchanged.

“You’ve become careless.”

“And you’ve become paranoid.”

“I’ve always been paranoid.”

“Fair.”

Herman went quiet for a second.

“There’s something else.”

Dante waited.

“She works for you.”

His gaze sharpened.

“What?”

“Technically, one of your companies.”

“Where?”

“NOIR.”

Dante knew the name immediately.

One of the upscale nightclubs owned beneath the Lawrence hospitality division.

“Doing what?”

“Hostess and service staff.”

“How long?”

“I’m looking at the employment record now.”

Dante waited.

Herman gave him the information.

“And she worked tonight,” Herman added.

Dante’s gaze moved toward the clock.

“Until when?”

“Her shift ends around eleven-thirty.”

Dante said nothing.

Andrew O’Neal had been taken from his home shortly before eleven.

His daughter had been working inside one of Dante’s businesses while it happened.

An interesting coincidence.

Nothing more.

“Does she know I own it?”

“Probably knows the Lawrence company owns it. Whether she knows you personally own it? No idea.”

Dante looked back toward the city.

“Find out.”

Herman sighed.

“Of course.”

Dante ended the call before Herman could say anything else.

He remained at the window.

Lisa Elizabeth O’Neal.

The name meant nothing to him.

A daughter.

A student.

An employee.

A reason a desperate father had borrowed money he couldn’t repay.

That was all.

Dante walked toward his private study.

Unlike the rest of the penthouse, nobody entered this room.

Not cleaners.

Not assistants.

Not Herman.

The door unlocked beneath his fingerprint.

Dante stepped inside.

The room was darker than the rest of the penthouse.

Books covered one wall.

Files another.

And along the far side of the room were photographs.

Dozens of them.

Some recent.

Some fourteen years old.

His mother’s face appeared among them.

Sarah Lawrence.

Thirty-five.

Dead.

Officially, complications from an illness.

Dante had stopped believing that years ago.

Beside her photograph was his father.

Davin Lawrence.

Forty.

Dead less than a year after his wife.

Officially, a car accident.

Dante didn’t believe that either.

Nearby was another photograph.

William James Johnson.

Fifty-eight.

His parents’ longtime assistant.

William had known Sarah and Davin’s schedules, meetings, associates, and routines. He had been around the Lawrence family for years and had known Dante since childhood.

Now he was dead too.

Whether William’s death belonged with Sarah’s and Davin’s was something Dante still hadn’t proven.

But his photograph remained on the wall.

Dante approached it.

Names connected to names.

Dates.

Companies.

Old associates.

Family members.

Enemies.

People who had attended his mother’s funeral and his father’s funeral.

People who had hugged a thirteen-year-old boy while perhaps knowing exactly why his parents were dead.

Dante had investigated them all.

Including his own blood.

His eyes stopped on one photograph.

David Lawrence.

His grandfather.

The man who had stood beside him after everything collapsed.

The man who had helped protect the company until Dante was old enough to take control.

The man who had supported almost every reckless decision Dante had made since.

Dante trusted him more than most.

That wasn’t the same as trusting him completely.

Nobody was above suspicion.

Nobody.

Dante stared at his mother’s photograph.

Memories were inconvenient things.

Her voice.

Her laugh.

The way she’d entered his room when he’d studied too late and closed the book in front of him.

You’re thirteen, Dante. The company will survive without you for one night.

He could barely remember the sound of her voice now.

That bothered him more than he would ever admit.

He remembered his father’s voice more clearly.

Especially after Sarah died.

Davin had changed.

The entire house had changed.

His father stopped smiling.

Stopped eating dinner at home.

Worked later.

Slept less.

And then—

Dante looked toward the photograph of the destroyed car.

Nothing.

He felt nothing.

That was what he’d taught himself.

Love made people careless.

Attachment created vulnerabilities.

Trust gave people access to the parts of you they could destroy.

His father had loved Sarah more than anything.

When she died, half of him died with her.

Dante had watched it happen.

He’d made himself a promise afterward.

Never depend on another person enough that losing them could destroy him.

Fourteen years later, he’d kept it.

Mostly.

His phone vibrated again.

A message from Herman.

O’Neal is downstairs.

Dante read it.

Another message followed.

Still want him held overnight?

Dante typed one word.

Yes.

He locked the phone.

His eyes returned to the wall.

Somewhere in New York was the person responsible for destroying his family.

Perhaps they were dead.

Perhaps they were sitting at dinner with him occasionally.

Perhaps they’d shaken his hand.

Perhaps they shared his last name.

Eventually, Dante would know.

And when he did, there would be no extensions.

No second chances.

No mercy.

He turned off the study light and closed the door behind him.

At 6:15 the next morning, Dante was awake.

At 6:45, he was dressed.

At 7:20, he was in the back of his car reading the revised Hudson development report.

At 7:31, Daniel called.

Dante answered without looking away from the document.

“You’re one minute late.”

“I sent the report at seven-twenty-eight.”

Dante glanced at the timestamp.

He had.

“Good.”

A confused pause followed.

“Is that...all?”

“What else do you want?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then don’t waste my time.”

Dante ended the call.

His driver looked straight ahead.

Smart man.

Dante returned to the report.

By eight, he was back inside Lawrence Global Group.

By nine, he had already attended two meetings.

At 9:17, Herman entered his office.

No coffee this time.

No jokes.

Dante noticed immediately.

“He’s still downstairs.”

Dante signed the document in front of him.

“O’Neal?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Since last night.”

Dante placed the pen down.

Herman didn’t move.

“What?” Dante asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re thinking loudly.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“For you it is.”

Herman sighed.

“The man is terrified.”

“He should have considered that before borrowing money.”

“He borrowed it for his family.”

“And?”

“You really don’t care?”

Dante walked around his desk.

“Whether I care doesn’t change what he owes.”

“No.”

Herman followed him toward the door.

“But it might change what you do about it.”

Dante stopped.

For several seconds, neither man spoke.

Herman was the only person who could push him this far.

Sometimes Dante wondered why he allowed it.

Then he remembered.

Herman had known Sarah.

Herman had known Davin.

Herman had been there before the funerals, before the company, before Dante learned exactly what people were capable of doing to one another.

Dante opened the door.

“He had two months.”

Herman’s face hardened.

“I know.”

“I gave him opportunities.”

“I know.”

“He made an agreement.”

“I know.”

Dante stepped into the hall.

“Then stop asking me to pretend agreements don’t matter.”

Herman followed.

The elevator doors opened.

Dante entered.

Herman stepped inside beside him.

As the doors closed, Dante looked at the reflection staring back at him.

Black suit.

Black hair.

Dark eyes.

No trace of the thirteen-year-old boy who had once stood between his parents in a photograph.

Good.

That boy had been weak.

That boy had trusted people.

Dante Victor Lawrence didn’t.

The elevator descended.

And somewhere below them, Andrew Augustus O’Neal was waiting.