Page 88 of The Price of Power

Another pause.

“I see,” he said, followed by, “Fine.”

Apparently, that was all that needed to be said because, after that, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and took a step back, allowing us into his home.

Over the last year, I’d found myself in too many of these high-end Manhattan apartments to count. Most days, the tasks were fairly routine—scrub the bathrooms, sweep the floors, wash the windows, dust the shelves. There was nothing extraordinary about the job itself.

The only unusual factor was the clients.

See, the service I worked for didn’t cater to the typical Manhattan elite. We didn’t clean the homes of executives and socialites. Our clients had dark secrets, the kind they couldn’t risk a regular housekeeper stumbling across.

And I’m not talking about the white-collar crimes that have always been rampant in New York society. These weren’t corporate types trying to hide their insider trading or Ponzi schemes. These guys had real secrets.

Violent secrets.

The kind kept by crime bosses, capos, and hitmen. Men who demanded assurance that the people coming into their homes every week wouldn’t dare turn around and tell those secrets to the authorities.

That’s where the service came in. So far as I could tell, every cleaner who worked for Jane had a reason to stay away from cops.

I knew better than to ask anyone for their story, though. God knew I would never tell mine.

The only thing I knew for certain was that none of us would ever go to the police. Not for any reason.

Some clients believed this more than others. There were those who liked to hover over my shoulder while I dusted their shelves—as if I needed a constant reminder of the threat dangling over my head.

Fortunately, the current client didn’t appear to be that type.

The moment Rose and I stepped inside, he left us alone to do our jobs, disappearing into one of the many rooms inside the apartment.

And it was one hell of an apartment.

The main room was open and airy, with a high ceiling and hardwood floor. The furnishings were spare—a long L-shaped couch, coffee table, an elegant bar in the corner, and bookcases lining the walls—but you could tell at a glance what was there was of the highest quality. Leather, dark wood, glass, stainless steel—the whole place was stylish and modern.

But what really made it stand out were the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park.

I must have used up all my willpower resisting the urge to sneak a peek at the client with the butter-rich voice because, for a moment, I couldn’t pull my eyes away from that magnificent view.

Sure, Jane had sent me to some pretty impressive addresses in the past year, but none with a view this stunning.

It had to be an eight-figure view…which said a lot about the position of the deep-voiced client who owned it. A man had to get his hands pretty dirty in the criminal world to make enough to afford an apartment like this.

A shiver raced down my spine as I tried to push the thought out of my head.

The details of the client’s life were none of my business, I reminded myself as I finally managed to pull my gaze away from the windows and followed Rose into the kitchen. But once there, she quickly shooed me away.

“Bedrooms and bathrooms,” she barked like a captain handing out orders on the battlefield, making it clear that I was the subordinate on this job.

I silently nodded, even though, just like everyone else, scrubbing toilets was my least favorite job. There was no use arguing, and since conversation was off-limits, complaining wasn’t even an option.

According to Jane’s text this morning, this was a four-bedroom, four-bath apartment, which meant I’d have my hands full scouring tile for a while. So, tightening my grip on my cleaning caddy, I headed off in search of the nearest bathroom.

I found the first one right across the hall from the kitchen. Thankfully, just like everything else I’d seen so far, this guest bathroom was already spotless.

The white marble countertops gleamed. There wasn’t a stain to be found. Given that I couldn’t find a single fingerprint smudge on any of the fixtures, I doubted anyone had even stepped foot inside since last week’s cleaning.

I still went through the whole routine—scrubbing, wiping, polishing. Cutting corners wasn’t wise with clients like this.

Follow the rules.