Mac hasn’t let my hand go, and I revel in the feel of it as we turn onto 97th street. He turns to me at the crosswalk while we wait. “I’m taking you to your father’s house. Your house. We have every right to be here. Plus, I don’t plan on killing anyone.”
Choking on a cough, I’m glad no one is close enough to overhear him, though plenty of people are still outside. “Good for you?”
The light changes and Mac pulls me across the street, but I think I see a smirk on his face. We take the traverse through the park, lights making the pathway easy to see on our way to the Upper West Side. We’re silent, since people might be anywhere, just out of sight.
When he pauses on the opposite side, I take the lead. “I spent a lot of time in this park.”
“Yeah?”
“Most of the schools I attended were in the city, and I was always giving my nannies the slip. My dad never cared, except for when I made my way home filthy from falling in the reservoir when he had guests. He pretended I was a street urchin and I didn’t get to come inside until they left around two in the morning.”
“What did he do when you came home?” Mac asks through gritted teeth.
“He had my nanny give me a spanking and I didn’t see him for a month.” Thinking back to the lesson, I realized which part was more effective, and it wasn’t having my ass bruised.
“I’m going to kill your father slowly,” Mac whispers, and I’m not sure he meant for me to hear.
Would I stop him? I’m not sure, and that’s a realization I don’t have time to process.
Chapter twenty-two
Mac
ThomasMiller’sbrownstoneisn’tdefended as well as his other homes. There is no wall or gate on the city street, and only one security guard out front. I have to wonder if he feels safer knowing this place is flanked on both sides but other houses, and based on Di’s research, the back has a high wall to separate it from the other multi-million dollar homes around it.
“I know this guy,” E whispers, gazing over my shoulder from our hiding place across the street. I’ve got my back to the property, using a car mirror to see. “Him being here means my dad most likely is as well. Booker’s always with my dad and thinks he’s hot shit.”
“So, no chance he’ll let you in like the guards in Cuba?”
“No,” E laughs without humor and gives me a sneaky grin. “But he takes a smoke break at least once an hour, and my dad doesn’t like how it looks to have a thug smoking on his stoop.”
“You’re saying he’ll walk away at some point?” I raise a brow in disbelief.
“Most of my dad’s guys fear him, but this asshole thinks he’s above reproach. Booker acts subservient as my dad’s personal bodyguard, then bosses everyone around like he’s in charge. If we’re lucky, he’ll go take a walk around the block soon.”
“Not much of a window to get in.”
“It’s all we’ve got,” E shrugs.
Thankfully, It’s only fifteen minutes before Booker is pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, glancing both ways before lighting it and heading in the opposite direction from us.
When he is out of sight, we stroll across the street as if we belong here, not hesitating before going up the steps to the brownstone door. Wanting to see his skills, I hand E the lock-picking kit.
After a pause to look through the options, E pulls out the correct tool and I feel proud for some reason. “There’s another door inside, but I’m hoping one of the codes still works,” E whispers.
Spotting the camera over the door, I move to shield E from view. They will know we’re here either way, but it feels like instinct. The deadbolt clicks and we push inside, where another camera is pointing at us. E’s first try doesn’t work, so I assume his father cancelled E’s personal code. The second one turns the pad green and I can hear the lock disengage.
“The maid’s code still works,” E grins, opening the door to reveal a marble-tiled foyer. There’s a round table in the middle with a giant bouquet of flowers obscuring the view into the next room.
This place is less ostentatious than the one in Cuba, more in the style expected of a late nineteenth-century house. A dark, wood staircase goes up in a spiral, and I glance in that direction.
“Where would your father be?” I ask and I see E’s face go from triumph over getting in, to anxious over the possible confrontation.
“I’m right here,” a deep voice calls out and I round the flowers to find Thomas Miller lounging on a chaise with a phone in one hand. The other hand lifts a tumbler with dark liquid to his lips for him to take a healthy drink. “You could have just knocked, Mr. MacKenzie.”
“Would you have let us in?” I ask, moving to stand in front of E. I dropped his hand at the door, but I still worry what his father will do to him.
“No,” Miller replies with a sneer. “And I’m going to have words with Booker over this breach.”