The Cadillac pulled up to a sleek, modern residential building that looked like a fortress of glass and steel nestled among the older brickwork of East Harlem. This wasn't the crumbling tenement I'd expected. This was a place for people with something to hide—and the money to hide it well.
Abigail led me through a marble lobby where a silent security guard just nodded as we passed. We stepped into a private elevator. There were no buttons, just a keycard reader that Abigail swiped. The lift moved with a silent, pressurized hum, ascending until the doors slid open directly into a massive penthouse suite.
The room was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city's glowing arteries. The furniture was minimalist and expensive—charcoal leathers, dark wood, and brushed metal. It smelled of new paint and high-end air filtration.
