"Janitor Found Camera Hidden In Mafia Boss's Office — Her Warning Note Saved Him From $200M Betrayal

The ammonia from the industrial cleaner had burned a permanent path through my sinuses months ago. Now I barely noticed it as I pushed the yellow maintenance cart down the marble hallway of the Apex Tower's executive floor, my reflection distorted in the polished stone that cost more per square foot than I'd make in a year.
Three a.m. The city that never sleeps was finally catching its breath, and I had two hours to make the forty-second floor disappear into gleaming perfection before the executives arrived at five-thirty to destroy it all over again.
My name is Sofia Reyes, twenty-eight years old, and I'd been cleaning the Apex Tower for eleven months—ever since I'd walked away from my old life in Chicago with nothing but a duffel bag and my grandmother's rosary. The job came through an agency that didn't ask questions if you worked the graveyard shift, didn't complain about the pay, and kept your mouth shut about what you saw.
I'd gotten very good at keeping my mouth shut.
The Apex Tower housed some of New York's most powerful players. Hedge fund managers on floors twenty through thirty. Corporate lawyers occupying thirty-one through thirty-nine. And the top three floors? Those belonged to Donovan Cole's empire—a real estate development company that everyone knew was real estate the way icebergs are ice. Most of the operation stayed hidden beneath the surface.
I'd learned not to think too carefully about what kind of deals were negotiated in those top-floor conference rooms, what kind of money flowed through accounts I wasn't supposed to understand, what kind of men visited at strange hours with briefcases handcuffed to their wrists.
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Tonight felt different, though. The air on the forty-second floor held a tension I couldn't name, like the pressure drop before a storm. The usual security guard, Marcus—a grandfather type who showed me pictures of his family and shared his wife's homemade empanadas—had been replaced by two men I'd never seen before. Younger, harder, with the kind of watchful eyes that tracked movement like predators.
They hadn't acknowledged me when I'd signed in. Just examined my ID badge with suspicious intensity before waving me through with curt nods. As if janitors were capable of corporate espionage.
I started in the reception area, emptying trash bins filled with the detritus of wealth: takeout containers from restaurants I couldn't afford, crumpled drafts of contracts worth millions, empty bottles of water that cost eight dollars each from the building's boutique market. My hands moved on autopilot—wipe down the reception desk, vacuum the sitting area, clean the glass coffee table that never seemed to accumulate fingerprints because important people apparently didn't touch things themselves.
The executive offices lined the perimeter, floor-to-ceiling windows offering views of Manhattan that made the city look like a circuit board of lights. Donovan Cole's office occupied the corner—the largest space with the best views, decorated with the kind of understated luxury that whispered rather than shouted its price tag.