I gave him an aren’t you adorable? smile and purred, “Oh, baby boy, don’t you know statistics? Chances can’t be improved from one hundred percent.”

CHAPTER 6

On the long cab ride home, I took stock of myself.

Catarina stock had taken a beating in today’s trading. Even as I gave a bitter laugh at the double meaning, my fists clenched. While my body felt well-loved, a little sore, the rest of me felt cheap and used. He’d made me feel that way.

Before he could say anything more, I’d pivoted on my heel and left him, heading downstairs to face the real world. By the time I’d reached the lobby, I was shaking. Bright lights had accused me; it’d seemed all eyes were on me. Like everyone knew what I’d done.

When I’d asked for a cab, a gap-toothed bellman whistled one forward, but he’d smirked as he opened the door. “Madam.” I’d almost popped him in the groin, but refrained because of rule number five. No undue attention, Cat.

One measly paid sex act had netted me burning humiliation. But the money! Five grand and then the two I’d lifted. Seven thousand dollars! I could probably pawn the money clip. I had plenty to get out of town. Yet even my windfall couldn’t cheer me.

Dinero sucio. Dirty money, for dirty deeds.

I could now add hooker and thief to my rap sheet. I took a deep breath, trying to shake off this feeling. A mal tiempo, buena cara, Cat. To bad weather, good face.

When my cab was a few blocks from my apartment, I told the driver, “You can stop here.” Rule number two: never create links. If I didn’t take precautions, this cab’s route would link my home to the hotel.

He raised his brows. “Drop you in this hood?”

Nothing here could be as dangerous as what had lurked within my former Jacksonville mansion—my husband.

I paid the cabbie, and he peeled off. I crossed a murky abandoned parking lot in my stilettos, dodging a minefield of broken bottles, tires, rusted mufflers, and weeds growing amok.

My spirits sank even more as I came upon my shady apartment complex. I didn’t need the busted streetlights to see peeling stucco, rust stains, and duct-taped windows. Fat vines grew along the walls like tentacles claiming the building for the deep.

The interior was much, much worse. I felt fifty years older as I climbed the cracked cement steps to my studio apartment.

While I worked to unlock my door—it always stuck—movement to my side caught my attention. Mr. Shadwell, my creepy apartment supe/manager, stared at me with his buglike eyes.

He was one of those Florida rednecks who should never have left the swamp. He wore a sweat-stained wifebeater that showed off his puny arms and furry shoulders. He didn’t even offer to help me as I struggled with my lock.

In our last conversation, I’d asked him to fix my leaking roof. He’d propositioned me again. So for now, I kept pots all over my studio.

Already, he’d been hitting me up for “protection deposits.” My need for anonymity meant I didn’t get to do anything about it. Basically, I paid him not to attack me—as he did the vulnerable single moms, prostitutes, and undocumented workers in the complex, those who would never go to the police.

Shadwell was the reason I hadn’t saved money to move. Which was why I’d screwed the Russian.

“Busy night?” The pig smirked, flashing his hit-or-miss teeth. His love of filterless cigarettes had left the remaining ones discolored.

I considered and discarded answers—girls’ night out? Bachelorette party? But this insect of a man wouldn’t force me to lie. My lock started to give way.

Before I could get inside, he rubbed his paunch, then lower. Too low. “We’ll be seeing you real soon.”

I couldn’t help but think I’d just received a warning.

After dead-bolting my door behind me, I leaned back against it. Coming from the Seltane penthouse to my cramped studio was like a slap in the face.

In my kitchenette, the stove didn’t work, nor the little refrigerator. I had a miniature microwave for canned dinners. A large bowl contained apples, bananas, and oranges to eat on the run. Strategically placed pots littered the floor. I’d moved my pitiful sagging bed into the center of the room, under the largest area of non-leaking ceiling.

Dinero in hand, I wended around the pots to reach my “safe,” my window AC unit, non-working of course. I used my Swiss Army knife to unscrew the filter, revealing a cranny. I added the money to my own meager operating fund: two hundred and fifty-seven dollars. Also inside were my fake ID and my one valuable: my mother’s rosary. It’d been passed down through my family for generations and was the sole thing I’d taken from home.

The sight of Sevastyan’s stack of cash next to the rosary made nausea churn in my gut.

Why had he turned something good into something dirty? I hadn’t thought I could hate anyone else as much as Edward, but Maksimilian Sevastyan had made the podium.

What was it about me that men found so . . . disposable? Three years ago, Edward had planned on the ultimate disposal.

After fleeing him, I’d moved every six months, living in Arizona, Texas, Louisiana, and New Mexico. Half a year ago, I’d dared to return to Florida, figuring this would be the last place Edward would expect me to go. I’d headed to Miami, optimistic about getting lost in the sprawling city—and getting work without papers.

Was he here even now? Had I made a bad calculation?

I replaced the AC vent, screwing it into place, then sank down on my creaky bed. I lay back atop rough thrift-store sheets, replaying my Edward sighting. When that burst of recognition had hit, my muscles had tensed to run.