“Ruben, it’s ten in the morning,” I said, then glanced at her, trying not to let pity leak into my expression. “Coffee’s fine.”

She stomped past me, muttering angrily in Spanish, too fast for me to pick up anything more than bitch. I heard that one a lot.

Cavazos laughed. “Close the door,” he called after her, and she slammed it hard enough to shake the framed photos on the wall—a gallery of Ruben Cavazos, pictured with every city official and national and foreign dignitary he’d ever met.

He stood, zipped his black slacks and circled his desk to sit on the fnt corner.

I dropped into one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. “She hates me.”

“With a rather colorful intensity.” He chuckled again. “Do you blame her?”

“I blame you.”

More laughter. His good moods were scarier than his anger, at least to those who knew him well. “Think of her hatred as a compliment.”

I thought of it as a problem. Michaela followed orders, just like everyone else bound to her husband. But she also took full advantage of every moment that wasn’t governed by an order and every possibility she wasn’t specifically ordered not to take. If she got the chance, she’d kill me. Or die trying.

Either way, she had my respect.

“What happened with the apartment in Florida?” he asked, all traces of humor gone.

“I got hold of the superintendent two days ago. It’s still rented to a woman named Tamara Parker, and she’s approximately the right age, but the description doesn’t fit. And he’s not with her, Ruben. She lives alone.”

“A landlord never really knows how many people live in a unit. And looks can be changed.”

“Yes, but unless your Tamara Parker gained two hundred pounds and changed her skin color, I think we’ve hit another dead end. She gave you a fake name, and she’s not using it anymore.”

His sigh was so frustrated he almost sounded human. But I’d been fooled by that too many times to let my guard down now. “What about him?”

“Nothing new.” I shrugged. “I get a faint tug from the middle name, but without more to go on, I can’t even tell what direction he’s in, much less how far away he is. He could be across the country, or across the street. We’re going to have to approach this from another angle.” Damned if I know what angle, though…

“Agreed.” Ruben blinked, then met my gaze with fresh determination, and I realized he was about to change the subject. “Why were you on High Street in the middle of the night?” he asked.

He was like a damn spider—his eyes were everywhere. “I was on a job. Got time and a half.”

“From Adam Rawlinson?”

“Yes.”

His frown deepened, and suddenly I wanted the laughter back. “I don’t like you working for him.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck what you like.”

His hand flew, and pain exploded in the corner of my mouth. My head rocked to the side and I tasted blood. But it was an openhanded blow, intended to make a point, not to truly hurt me. “Respect, Olivia. It’s what this syndicate is founded on.”

Funny, I thought the syndicate was founded on money. And blood. And ironclad bonds of indentured servitude.

I tasted the cut on the inside of my lip. I could hit him back;

“If I didn’t respect your abilities, you wouldn’t be here,” he continued, and the irony in that fact stung worse than my lip. Was this the reward for being good at my job? Ruben crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me like he might a crossword puzzle beyond his vocabulary. “But I don’t know why you bother with these penny-ante jobs.”

I rolled my eyes. “You don’t know a lot of things.”

“I know you haven’t set foot in your apartment in more than a year.”

“It’s your apartment. Mine is the one I pay rent on.” On the south side. In a building owned by one of the few men in the city who owed loyalty to neither Tower nor Cavazos. The south fork was as close as I could get to Switzerland.

“I understand that you threw away every cent in your bank account.”

“My bank account is fine.” If a little malnourished. “And the account you set up wasn’t thrown away. The money was donated in your name.” I’d withdrawn the five-figure balance in cash and given it to the Catholic-run homeless shelter around the corner from my office. “Sister Theresa thanks you for your generosity.”

His grip tightened on the edge of his desk, and I held my breath. I was poking a lion with a stick, and one of these days he would bite me in half. I knew that. But I wasn’t going to just roll over and play dead for him.

That was his wife’s job.

Besides, as long as he still needed me, he wasn’t going to kill me, and we both knew it.

“Olivia…” he warned.

“I’m not going to stop working, and you can’t make me.”

Cavazos stood and pulled me up by one arm. I didn’t bother resisting—the sooner we got this over with, the sooner I could start Tracking Shen’s killer. With Cam. But thinking about him must have shown on my face, because Ruben’s grip tightened and he pushed me around the chair.

“You want to work? Fine. I have a job for you.” He kept walking—kept pushing—until my back hit the darkly paneled wall. “One of my staff Binders is missing,” he whispered, leaning toward my neck. “Along with the contracts he was working on. I need them back. Rapido.”