Denver Kane had lived in worse places. Forward operating bases with sand in everything. Safe houses that smelled of mold and old cigarettes. Hotels where the locks were a joke and the walls were thinner than paper. Ryan Vale’s penthouse was none of those things.
It was open, bright, and aggressively expensive. Floor-to-ceiling glass wrapped three sides of the main living space, offering a view of the city that most people only saw in photographs. The furniture was low and modern, all clean lines and pale fabrics that looked like they had never known a single stain. A floating staircase of white oak and steel led to the upper level. Everything smelled faintly of expensive candles and money.
Denver hated it on principle.
He completed his initial sweep in under forty minutes. Guest suite—a
