Lila pushed through the heavy iron gates of Woodlawn Cemetery. She stepped onto the curb and threw her hand up.
A yellow cab pulled over, its tires splashing dirty water against her boots. She collapsed the dripping umbrella and slid into the backseat.
"Lower Manhattan," she told the driver.
The cab smelled like stale coffee and old leather. The heater blasted against her frozen legs. Lila leaned her head against the cold glass of the window. She watched the raindrops streak across the pane. Her heart was still beating too fast.
Leo's eyes. The sheer weight of his stare. It felt like a physical pressure against her throat.
Thirty minutes later, the cab pulled to a stop in front of a rundown antique shop. A faded "Closed" sign hung in the dusty window.
Lila handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill and stepped back out into the rain. She pushed the heavy wooden door of the shop open. A dull bell clanged above her head.
She walked past aisles of rotting Victorian furniture and tarnished mirrors. At the back of the shop, behind a massive oak bookshelf, was a solid steel door.
Lila punched a six-digit code into the keypad. The heavy deadbolts clicked open.
She stepped into the underground safehouse. The air here was warm, smelling of expensive cigars and old paper. The lighting was dim, casting long shadows across the velvet furniture.
Madame Rose sat on a dark green sofa. She held a crystal glass of bourbon in one hand and a thin cigar in the other. She blew a perfect ring of smoke toward the ceiling.
Rose looked at Lila's dripping coat and pale face. She frowned. She picked up a dry cashmere towel from the armrest and tossed it.
Lila caught the towel. She rubbed it roughly over her wet hair.
"I saw him," Lila said. Her voice was flat. "Leo Sterling."
Rose set her glass down on the mahogany table. The ice clinked sharply. "You are out of your mind. That funeral was crawling with federal agents and rival hitters."
Lila walked to the small bar in the corner. She poured herself a glass of ice water and drank it in one long swallow. The cold water shocked her system, slowing her racing pulse.
"He is worse than the file says, Rose," Lila said. She gripped the edge of the bar. "He doesn't care about anyone. He looked at his father like he wanted to put a bullet in his head."
Rose sighed. She reached under the table and pulled out a thick manila envelope. She threw it onto the table. It landed with a heavy thud.
Lila walked over and opened it. A few grainy photos slid out, along with some redacted bank statements.
"My contact, N, did everything possible," Rose said. "Leo's movements are encrypted. He uses burner phones. He doesn't have a schedule. He is a monster with no visible weak points."
Lila picked up a blurry photo of Leo walking out of a nightclub. "No regular women?"
"None," Rose said. "Women are disposable to him. He never keeps them overnight. Do not think you can play a long game with his heart, Lila. He doesn't have one."
Lila let out a short, harsh laugh. She dropped the photo. "I don't need his heart. I just need him to become obsessed."
Rose stood up. She walked over and grabbed Lila's wrist. Her grip was tight. "Lila, listen to me. Once you cross this line, there is no coming back. He will destroy you."
Lila looked down at Rose's hand. The memory of her mother's blood pooling on the floor flashed behind her eyes. Her stomach cramped.
"I crossed the line the night my mother died," Lila said. Her voice was dead. She pulled her wrist free.
She walked to the far corner of the room. A rolling rack of clothes stood against the wall. High-end dresses, cheap uniforms, various costumes for various lies.
"I have to force his hand," Lila said. She ran her fingers over the fabrics. "If he is paranoid, I will become bait he cannot ignore."
Rose crossed her arms. "How? He doesn't take bait."
Lila stopped. Her fingers closed around a black silk shirt. The fabric was incredibly thin, almost weightless.
"His private movements are a mystery, yes," Lila said, her voice steady as she held up the dark garment. "But his public theater is not. Tomorrow is Sunday. He goes to St. Patrick's Cathedral for the morning mass. For the cameras and the press."
Rose nodded slowly. She looked at the thin shirt in Lila's hands. Her eyes widened slightly.
"It is going to storm tomorrow," Lila said. Her voice was soft, but her grip on the silk was white-knuckled. "I am going to give him something he wants to break."
