Chapter 12 Money Morning
The first thing Cedric became aware of was the silence.
Not the kind of silence he was used to.the thin-walled apartment silence where you could hear neighbors fucking through the drywall, or cars honking on the street below, or the constant hum of a city that never actually slept. This was different, it was Thick and Expensive. The kind of silence that came from soundproofed walls and being thirty stories above the noise of regular people's lives.
The second thing he became aware of was that he was alone.
Cedric's eyes snapped open, his hand immediately reaching across the bed to the space where Falcone had been last night. The sheets were cold. Not just cool, but cold enough that he'd been gone for hours. Panic fluttered in Cedric's chest before he could stop it, which annoyed him. Why the fuck should he care if Falcone was gone? He should be relieved. Should use this as an opportunity to grab his shit and run.
Except his shit wasn't where he'd left it.
Cedric sat up slowly, wincing as muscles he'd forgotten he had screamed in protest. His body was a roadmap of last night's activities, bite marks on his shoulder, fingerprint bruises on his hips, a delicious ache deep inside that made his face flush even though no one was there to see it. He'd been thoroughly, completely fucked, and his body wasn't letting him forget it.
The clothes he'd worn to the club, his cheap button-down and ill-fitting slacks were gone. In their place, folded neatly on the chair by the window, was something that probably cost more than three months of his old rent. Black joggers that looked butter-soft, a grey t-shirt with a designer label he recognized from store windows he'd never been able to afford to enter, and underneath, boxer briefs that were definitely not from a Target three-pack.
"What the fuck," Cedric muttered, standing on shaky legs.
The floor was warm beneath his feet. Heated floors. Of course, there were heated floors. Probably costs more to heat this single room than his entire apartment building spends in a month.
His reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows stopped him cold. Manhattan(a city) spread out below like a glittering promise, morning sun reflecting off glass and steel, and superimposed over all of it was him. Cedric Santos, looking like he'd been hit by a very attractive, very dangerous truck. His blonde hair was a mess, standing up in directions that defied physics. His lips were swollen, Kiss-bitten, and red. And there was a hickey on his neck the size of a quarter that he definitely hadn't noticed last night.
He looked exactly like what he was: someone's well-fucked boy toy.
The thought should have made him angry. Should have sent him scrambling for his phone to call Marcus, to get the fuck out before this situation got any more complicated. Instead, he found himself touching the mark on his neck, pressing his fingers against it until it hurt, remembering the feel of Falcone's teeth on his skin, the way he'd growled “mine” like it was a promise and a threat all at once.
"Get it together," Cedric told his reflection. "You're not some lovesick idiot. This is a job. A fucked up, morally questionable job, but still a job."
His reflection didn't look convinced. His reflection looked like someone who was already in way over his head and sinking fast.
The penthouse was even more impressive in daylight. Last night, he'd only seen the glimpses of the bedroom, the elevator, the overwhelming sense of wealth and power that seemed to seep from the walls. Now, padding through the space in his bare feet, Cedric could actually appreciate the full scope of where he'd ended up.
And it was fucking intimidating.
The main living area was open concept, all clean lines and modern furniture that probably had names he couldn't pronounce. Everything was positioned with the kind of precision that spoke of interior designers who charged by the hour and had waiting lists longer than most people's arms. A kitchen that looked like it belonged in a restaurant, all stainless steel and marble countertops that gleamed like they'd never seen actual use. Artwork on the walls that was either very expensive or very good forgeries, and knowing Falcone, probably the former. Everything was in shades of black, grey, and white, with occasional splashes of deep red that should have been tacky but somehow worked.
It was beautiful. It was intimidating. It was absolutely not the kind of place where someone like Cedric belonged.
He ran his hand along the back of a leather sofa that probably cost more than a year of Cornell tuition. The leather was soft as butter, the kind of quality you couldn't fake. Everything in this place was like that real, expensive, permanent. Nothing like the secondhand furniture and IKEA particleboard of his old life.
The kitchen counter was a single slab of marble, grey with delicate white veining that looked almost organic. No seams, no breaks, just one continuous piece of stone that had to weigh a ton. Cedric found himself wondering how they'd even gotten it up here. Helicopter, probably. People like Falcone didn't worry about things like freight elevators or weight limits.
He found his phone on that impossible counter, plugged in and fully charged. Next to it was a sleek black credit card with his name embossed on it in silver letters, and a note in handwriting that was surprisingly elegant for a man who broke fingers for a living.
“Cedric,”
“Had to handle some business. Make yourself at home…..it's ours now. The card has no limit. Buy whatever you want, eat whatever you want, do whatever you want. Only rule: don't leave the building without calling me first.”
“I'll be back by dinner. Be hungry.”
“....G”
“P.S. You look beautiful when you sleep. Almost innocent. Almost”
Cedric stared at the note for a long moment, his emotions doing something complicated in his chest. The casual possessiveness of it,” it's ours now” should have set off every alarm bell. The restriction,” don't leave the building” should have sent him running for the door.
Instead, all he could focus on was the postscript. The idea that Falcone had stood over him while he slept, watching him, thinking he looked beautiful. It made something warm and dangerous unfurl in his stomach, something he absolutely did not want to examine too closely.
He picked up the credit card, turning it over in his hands. It was heavy, metal instead of plastic. The kind of card that came with airport lounges and concierge services and probably a dedicated phone line for whatever the fuck rich people needed at three in the morning. His name looked strange on it, too official, like he was playing dress-up in someone else's life.
“Cedric Santos”
Not even his full name. Just... Cedric Santos. Like he was someone. Someone who mattered. Someone who belonged in a penthouse with heated floors and single-slab marble counters.
"Stockholm syndrome," Cedric said out loud, as if naming it would make it less real. "That's what this is. Classic Stockholm syndrome."
But he slipped the credit card into the pocket of his new expensive joggers anyway.
The rest of the penthouse revealed itself in layers. A home gym that put his old apartment's communal fitness room to shame……no, that wasn't fair. He has heard from Marcus that his apartment doesn't have a fitness room. It had a basement with a broken treadmill and a smell that suggested something had died in the walls. This was an actual gym, with weight machines that looked NASA-designed and a sound system that probably cost more than most people's cars.
A bathroom with a tub big enough to swim in and a shower that had more settings than his first car. Cedric counted them. Eighteen different settings. Who needed eighteen different shower settings? He turned one dial experimentally and nearly jumped out of his skin when water shot out from jets he hadn't noticed in the walls.
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Steam curled off Cedric’s skin as he stepped out of the shower, a towel hanging loose around his hips. The mirror was fogged, blurring his reflection until he wiped it clean with the back of his hand. His eyes looked softer now, less like the hollow mess from last night, more like someone pretending he still had control over his life.
The phone buzzed on the counter.
Marcus.
He sighed, pressing it to his ear. “Detective Chen,” he said flatly, watching the drops of water slide down his chest. “You don’t sleep much, do you?”
Marcus’s voice came through steady, too sharp for this early. “Morning, cedric. You get anything last night? Any names, conversations,or just anything that could help?”
Cedric smiled faintly at his reflection, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing worth writing home about,” he said.
A pause. Just the sound of Marcus breathing on the other end. He didn’t believe him. Cedric could hear it in that heavy silence. The detective’s skepticism always sat like a weight on his chest.
“You’re sure?” Marcus asked finally.
“Positive,” Cedric replied, leaning his hip against the counter. “I played dumb, poured drinks, smiled when they told me to. They see me as decoration, not a threat. That’s good, right?”
“Maybe.” Marcus’s tone softened a little, just a shade. “You need to keep it that way. Don’t get too comfortable. Falcone’s people are paranoid.”
Cedric laughed quietly. “Trust me, I’m the least comfortable person in New York right now.”
He switched the phone to his other ear, eyes dropping to the faint bruise still blooming on his neck….falcone’s fingerprints, almost faded but not gone. “I’ll try again, i would find a way to work as an undercover agent in his real mansion, just remember our deal. “
“Be careful,” Marcus said. “You’re not built for this world.”
That stung more than it should have. Cedric’s jaw tightened. “Yeah? Funny, because this world seems to like me just fine.”
Marcus didn’t respond right away. “Just… watch your back. And call me whenever you have gotten any information. “
Cedric hummed a noncommittal sound and hung up before he could hear whatever lecture Marcus had lined up next. He tossed the phone onto the counter, exhaling a long breath that fogged the mirror again.
For a few seconds, the room was quiet except for the slow drip of the showerhead.
He looked at himself again~at the towel, the bruises, the wet hair falling over his eyes~and whispered under his breath, “Nothing worth writing home about,” like repeating the lie could make it true.
But somewhere deep inside, beneath all that calm, a small part of him already knew he wasn’t lying to Marcus just to protect himself.
He was protecting falcone too.
And that terrified him more than anything.