Page 45 of No Longer Mine (Rags & Riches #2)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Scarlett

After the stunt Oliver pulled with Dimitri, I decided it was time for me to give him a call back. I knew he was only paying me back for not answering his calls or texts. His way of saying ‘check mate’. It was a bold move, I should have known he would retaliate in such a manner.

“You have my attention,” I said to Oliver through the phone.

I was staying at Cleo’s home instead of going back to my own penthouse, too afraid of what Sinclair would do or even Dimitri.

I didn’t know if I would have the strength to tell him to leave if he came back around with his puppy dog eyes.

He’d looked so broken when he burst through the door.

I wanted to comfort him and scold him all at the same time, but I knew I couldn’t give in.

Men like him bought and sold what they wanted.

I wouldn’t be one of those items. He had enough information on me.

I wasn’t going to be his pawn. There was only so much a girl could take.

“You have a job offer,” He started with. I didn’t know if I was ready for a job.

“What about the drive?” I didn’t want to hear about the job offer.

“I was calling you all week because of the job.”

“Okay, but I want to know about the drive.”

“How about this? Wow, Scarlett, I’m so happy you’re okay. I was worried sick about you when you ignored me like I haven’t been there for you almost all of your life.”

I rolled my eyes at his dramatic tone. “Okay, fine, I’m sorry I didn’t answer. I just… I don’t know, I felt lost and needed to wallow.”

“Apology accepted. The drive is in Russian, but it looks to be inventory, financial records, routes maybe, and even a contact list— though that is coded. It’s hard to tell, but you might have hit the mother load on this one.”

I let out a breath. “Good, I want as much info as we can get. I need you to start deep diving into Sinclair Cristof… The other night,” I stopped. Could I tell him? “He threatened me at his club, and I think it’s high time we pay him a little visit.”

“It’s funny you say that.”

“Oh?”

“That’s your next target. Someone has put a hit on dear Sinclair Cristof. You’re to get as much information as you can on him. Swipe any flash drives you can find, and of course… you can take your fill of jewels and the like.”

“What’s the deadline?” I chewed on my bottom lip. This was interesting timing, though I wasn’t upset about it. It gave me an excuse to try to help bring this man down—if that was what they were doing.

“It’s on your time, but sooner rather than later.”

“Do we have a name for the client?”

“Nope, I have a number that belongs to a burner phone, and the voice is, of course, autotuned.”

“Okay,” Someone wanted to get to the Cristofs badly. It was suspicious, strange even, but I wanted to get to him too, which meant I wouldn’t say no. I paced the length of my borrowed bedroom. “I’ll take the job. I need blueprints of his apartment and his schedule.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Oliver said as he typed away on his computer. “I have his wife’s.”

“How is that supposed to help me? He didn’t have her with him the other night.”

Oliver laughed a little. “The other night when he was out, so was she. They only stay in when he doesn’t go out. When he goes out, she meets up with friends or her sons to have lunch or dinner.”

“You knew I would say yes.”

“You’re getting predictable.” He typed on his keyboard some more before my phone pinged. “That’s the most recent blueprint of their penthouse and her schedule. How are you going to get in there?”

That was a great question. I wasn’t quite sure just yet. But that was half of the fun.

I tried my best not to think of Dimitri again, but I kept his political doings pulled up on my phone.

He’d managed to pass new bills that were going to clean up the city.

So many wins for him in such a short amount of time.

There were pictures of him in the press with his family celebrating, and even a few parties hosted at his home.

During the two weeks since I’d last seen him, I spent my time meticulously going over how to make his father my next mark.

Yet I still didn’t feel one hundred percent okay with the plan.

I’d found old servant entryways, though Oliver cussed me up and down the entire time.

Something wasn’t good enough with the plans, and I needed him to find another.

I couldn’t fuck this one up. I would have to pose as staff to get into the building.

Oliver tapped into the security system in the building.

He knew when they came and went, and even had one of their uniforms made for me.

It fit me like a glove. I ran my hands down the length of it before I began pinning up my red locks behind a blonde, curly wig.

Darla, the sweet blonde housekeeper, mysteriously won a trip to Cabo— all expenses paid through a sweepstakes that she couldn’t remember signing up for.

As well as a couple thousand dollars to cover her taking off of work for the week, or maybe even the month.

The Cristofs kept their staff and what they paid them locked down.

Which meant they were either paid cash or they were paid discreetly some other way.

Thankfully, it wasn’t that hard to find facial recognition software to track down the women who came and went from their apartment. I would look, for the most part, as one of their regulars, as long as no one looked too close and I kept my face from the cameras. Easy enough.

I patted the keycard in the front pocket of my uniform.

Cleo had slipped into her apartment as soon as her flight took off and found it on the entryway table.

It was cloned, just in case, and placed back in her apartment.

Though I had a feeling that she wouldn’t have a job when she got back from her trip, when all of this was said and done.

I didn’t like how guilty it made me feel.

After all, I usually gave to those in need and poor Darla was overworked, and from her digs, underpaid.

She was the most likely to take the vacation with her wife over anyone else.

Especially since her wife had to have knee replacement surgery just a few months prior and couldn’t contribute to the bills.

Living in New York City wasn’t cheap either.

I decided as I was tying my shoes and putting the finishing touches to my outfit that I would give her more money, anonymously, when all of this was over. I couldn’t be the reason this woman lost everything just because her bosses were the scum of the earth.

I pressed the comms into my ear and cleared my throat. “Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, babe.”

I screwed up my nose. “No code names?”

“I thought babe had a good ring to it,” Oliver laughed.

I rolled my eyes. “Try again.”

We’d never tried to have a romantic relationship, and I wasn’t going to be trying now.

We’d been through too much together to even tiptoe down that road.

Plus, I was almost more than certain he was gay, though he never said for sure.

He didn’t date women and the dates he did go on were locked up tight.

He was never seen by the press and he didn’t check out women when we went out together.

There were signs, but I wouldn’t push it.

If he wanted to tell me, he would tell me when he was ready.

Or never at all. I didn’t care. It was his life, not mine.

All I cared about was that he was happy and taking care of himself.

“Okay, foxy lady,” He snickered.

“Ugh, no code names.”

Dimitri flashed through my mind, and I tripped as I was leaving the safe house.

There was no point in coming and going from a high-end penthouse in the middle of the Upper East Side wearing a maid’s uniform.

It would only attract unwanted attention.

Plus, I didn’t trust that Sinclair’s men weren’t watching my home.

Gavin never texted and never called, which was surprising but also frightening.

I wondered if it meant Sinclair was going to try something.

I let out a breath as I approached the Uber waiting on the corner.

I couldn’t let those thoughts get into my head or else they were going to mess all of this up.

I had to stay focused. I needed to get in, get out, and not raise suspicion.

Sinclair was out with Gavin—per Oliver’s sleuthing on Gavin’s calendar, and Mrs. Cristof was out at dinner with Dimitri. Which was odd but also endearing.

Nope. I couldn’t go there.

Just to be safe, I had the Uber drop me off at the subway. The walk to the station was only five minutes, but I couldn’t risk it. The last thing I needed was someone noticing a housekeeper getting out of a car that was way too nice for her salary.

The wind bit at my skin as I pulled my scarf tighter, bracing myself for the long walk ahead. The wig was secure, but all it took was one stray gust or one too many adjustments for something to shift out of place. And if something was out of place, I could die. No room for error.

The subway was packed, a crush of bodies moving like a single living thing, heads down, shoulders hunched against the cold. I slipped through them, invisible in the way only a New Yorker could be. Ten minutes to the Cristof’s building.

Oliver had tracked Darla’s route for the last two weeks, making sure we had it down to an exact science. Every day, without fail, she stopped at a coffee cart before heading in.

I mirrored her routine. But this time with a scarf over my face. I let out a weak, scratchy cough as I approached the cart.

The vendor smiled. “The usual?”

I nodded and coughed again for good measure as I waved my hand around, agitated. “This weather,” I rasped.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s the worst. I’d kill for a tropical getaway.”

I handed him exact cash, took the coffee, and moved on, sticking to Darla’s pace.

Ten minutes from here.

My head started itching beneath the wig. I had no idea how Cleo wore these things so often. Then again, knowing her, she spent way more on hers than I had. That’s probably what made all the difference.

I reached the back entrance of the Cristof’s building and let out a slow breath. No one was waiting. No guards. No cameras repositioned.

“You good?” Oliver’s voice crackled in my ear, grounding me.

“Uh-huh,” I hummed.

“Everything’s clear up to the penthouse. You shouldn’t have any problems getting in.”

I swiped the keycard.

Nothing.

My stomach twisted. I tried again. Red light.

Shit. Had Darla come back? Had she changed her mind? No. She was on a flight. Oliver was watching her place through his system.

One more time. I held my breath.

Green.

Relief hit so hard I had to close my eyes for a second before yanking the door open.

Inside, the small service room was colder than the street. Two sets of elevators stood waiting. I ditched the coffee in the trash, pulled my jacket tighter, and stepped into the nearest one, pressing 24.

From here, things got tricky.

The Cristofs’ floor had an eye-scanning security system on the service entrance. No way in through the back door. But the utility closet at the end of the hall? That held my way in.

The elevator climbed, too slow and too fast all at once. This high up, if something went sideways, I wouldn’t have many options. I could jump the balcony—if I made it, I’d be fine. If I missed? Suicide.

Oliver’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Hallway’s on a loop. You’re clear to move.”

The doors slid open. Heart hammering, I kept my head down and moved fast, reaching the utility closet just as the hallway cameras reset.

I yanked the door. Stuck. Shit.

I wrenched it harder, and it gave, nearly sending me flying inside. I shut it fast behind me, clicking on a flashlight.

Vacuums. A towel cart. Mountains of toilet paper. All shoved up against the back wall.

I stuffed the flashlight between my teeth and started moving things, hands sweeping over the wall, searching. The blueprints had shown a door here. There had to be a door here.

My patting against the wall grew frantic, each pass more erratic as panic clawed up my throat. This couldn’t be it. I hadn’t come this far just to be stopped by a goddamn wall.

I pressed harder, searching for anything—a seam, a hinge, a whisper of a gap. My glove snagged.

I froze.

Heart hammering, I repositioned the flashlight, angling the beam upward. There.

In the top corner, a small latch, nearly swallowed by layers of old paint. But the paint was chipping. Freshly disturbed.

Someone had used this door recently. All the warning bells went off inside my head, but I didn’t have any other option.

I swallowed hard, pulse thundering, and reached for the latch. I expected a squeak, maybe a groan of protest—nothing. The mechanism moved smoothly, too smoothly. Someone used this door often.

A narrow, dim corridor stretched before me, the air thick with dust and the faint scent of neglect.

Cobwebs clung to the walls, but the floor?

Spotless. No footprints, no grime. Whoever passed through here cleaned up after themselves.

I went over the blueprints in my mind. The Cristof’s home was to the left.

There would be another door to the left, which it would lead to Mrs. Cristof’s closet, if I was correct.

I looked back at the door. If I closed it, would I be trapped in here?

Did it really matter? It would be weird if I didn’t use the front door if I were caught or saw someone.

On the maid’s cart was a duster. I grabbed the pink thing and tucked it into the waistband of my skirt before I closed the door behind me.

The door was easy enough to find.

I pressed my ear against the door, straining for any sound on the other side. Nothing. Just the steady hum of the building. I exhaled and tested the handle. It didn’t budge.

Locked.

I reached into the pocket of my apron and pulled out a slim metal pick.

I worked fast, my fingers steady despite the adrenaline surging through me.

The lock was old, not cheap, but not impenetrable.

A couple of careful turns, a soft click, and the door eased open an inch, though it required some work because it was heavy.

The scent of old leather books and cologne met my nose. I stepped inside, and my jaw almost hit the floor. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The door led to Sinclair’s office, not his wife’s closet, and connected to the secret door was a bookcase.