The heavy oak and brass doors of the Mayfair Grand swung wide open, cutting through the murmurs of New York’s elite like a guillotine blade. / Chapter 17 / 20

Chapter 17 - THE KNOCK ON THE DOORWe moved up the concrete outdoor stairwell in absolute silence.

Julian took the lead, his hand resting casually inside his jacket near a silenced sidearm, while Mason and I flanked right behind him. The air smelled of damp earth, cheap cooking oil, and wet asphalt.

When we reached Apartment 204, Julian raised his hand and knocked firmly twice against the dented wooden door.

Inside, we heard the sharp rustle of papers, a dropped coffee mug, and a panicked voice calling out through the door. "Who is it? If this is the landlord, I told you the rent will clear by Friday!"

"Open the door, Sloane," I spoke up, my voice clear and carrying through the wood paneling. "It's Eleanor."

A breathless silence fell over the apartment.

Then, the sound of multiple deadbolts sliding back with metallic clicks.

The door swung open.

Sloane Avery stood in the doorway, looking a hundred years older than the glittering woman who had held a champagne flute at the Mayfair Grand. Her hair was unwashed, tied back in a messy clip. She wore an oversized grey hoodie and faded sweatpants. Her eyes widened in absolute, blind terror when she saw my face standing in her dimly lit hallway.

"E-Eleanor?" she stammered, stumbling backward into the cluttered living room. "What... what are you doing here? How did you find me?"

"You're not hard to find, Sloane," I walked past her into the apartment, my heels clicking against the worn linoleum floor, with Julian and Mason stepping in right behind me to lock the door. "Especially when you're walking around with a multi-billion-dollar digital key on your finger."

Sloane instinctively curled her right hand into a fist, pressing it against her chest. "I don't know what you're talking about! I didn't take anything! I just wanted to get away!"

"Stop lying, Sloane," I said, turning to face her with a calm, freezing stare. "You took Preston's wedding ring out of his office desk the night before the gala. You thought it was a parting gift. But that ring contains the encrypted biometric signature to a Swiss vault holding two hundred million dollars in stolen Hartwell and syndicate assets."

Sloane’s face turned the color of ash. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed backward onto her worn-out sofa, clutching her right hand as if someone were about to amputate her finger.

"I didn't know!" she sobbed, tears spilling down her pale cheeks. "I swear to God, I didn't know! I just wanted something to pay off my lease! I tried to pawn it last month, but the jeweler said the engraving was custom and refused to touch it!"

Before I could answer, a loud, heavy crash echoed from the rear fire escape of the building.