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If there was ever a record for fastest travel time between Wall Street to the Crosby neighborhood, I would hold it. It’s no more than eleven minutes later that the tires on my Bentley screech as I slam on the brakes.

Portia’s waiting outside her building, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Relief flits across her face at the sight of me and she rushes over.

“Rafael, I’m so sorry to call, but Jayla must be busy with a client and the police said they can’t come out unless there’s a crime! Breaking and entering apparently isn’t enough.”

I clench my jaw. “Someone’s inside your apartment?”

“The door was open and… I mean I… I didn’t go inside.”

“It’s good you didn’t. Somebody could be waiting in there hoping you would. I’ll check it out.”

“Are you… are you sure?”

Her eyes are round with worry, her posture so stiff and unnatural. She’s terrified.

I squeeze her shoulder and say, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

I stride into her building like I own the place. It’s how I enter most buildings, Rafael Calderone the billionaire who isn’t fazed by anything. He’s calm, cool, and collected no matter the situation.

That includes potential home invasions.

I’m strapped and if need be, I can become Diavolo in the blink of an eye. I will if it comes down to it.

Portia’s practically my shadow, following half a pace behind me. She’s curious yet still spooked by the situation.

We make it to the apartment that’s hers on the third floor.

Apartment 302.

The door hangs open, the inside engulfed by ominous shadows.

I step through the doorway and extend my hand to the nearest wall for a light switch. The light comes on, chasing away the shadows and revealing almost instantly who the culprit is.

The man’s passed out on the couch.

I’m on him in two quick strides, wrenching him up by the front of his shirt.

“Get up you piece of shit,” I growl, drawing back my fist. “What are you doing in here? You thought you’d break into some woman’s apartment?”

“Wait… don’t hit him!” Portia calls out. Her fear has dissolved for shock, her blinks long and slow. “That’s my ex-husband. Lincoln, what the hell are you doing here? How did you get in my apartment?”

After another second peering down at him, I recognize him too. Thisisher ex-husband, only more disheveled than ever.

The guy’s a groggy mess. He rubs at his eyes, then covers my hands with his. “Mind letting me go, buddy? You hit me, I sue you.”

I grit my teeth. “I welcome the lawsuit.”

“Please don’t!” interrupts Portia, speaking to either or both of us at once. “Lincoln, you have no right being in my apartment!”

“You’re my ex-wife.”

“Ex being the operative word!”

“Your landlord let me in. I told her you had my things.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “You mean the opposite of the truth?Youhadmythings.”