The Foreign Exchange

ALSO BY VERONICA G. HENRY Bacchanal The Mambo Reina Series The Quarter Storm This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Text copyright © 2023 by Veronica Henry All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by 47North, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781662503788 (paperback) ISBN-13: 9781662503771 (digital) Cover design by Faceout Studio, Amanda Hudson Cover image: © khr128 / Getty; © Cozine / Shutterstock; © Cara-Foto / Shutterstock; © BLAGORODEZ / Shutterstock; © GJGK Photography / Alamy; © Katarzyna Mierzwinska / ArcAngel; © Xinzheng / Getty This one, dear reader . . . this one’s for you. CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE CHAPTER THIRTY CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE CHAPTER FORTY CHAPTER FORTY-ONE CHAPTER FORTY-TWO CHAPTER FORTY-THREE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR CHAPTER ONE It was nearly pitch black out, thanks to the busted streetlights and a chickenshit moon quivering behind the clouds, the encroaching darkness grim and tense. The street was thick with an impenetrable quiet, as if poised and waiting for something to finally release it from its crumbling chains. The man craned his neck and squinted through the darkened windshield. He circled the block three times before he found a parking space in front of the puke-colored house at the corner of Laharpe and North Dorgenois. A mangy mutt trotted by, something limp dangling from its mouth. Down the street, someone hauled a trash can out to the curb. A flash of headlights up ahead. The man slid down in his seat as the car rolled past, a deep bass rattling his windows. And when all was quiet again, he fixed his attention back on the house. The driveway had been swallowed whole by a rusted metal dumpster, overflowing with construction debris. Tree branches crisscrossed overhead like a skeletal, protective shell. Windows barred. A filigreed security door with a heavy lock. Inside the car, the man reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. When his hand emerged, it held a glass vial and a syringe. The vial was no more than a couple inches in height, scraps of the hastily removed label clinging to the exterior. The syringe was still wrapped in its plastic packaging. It was by accident that he’d discovered the drug boosted him. He was getting older and had only sought to enhance his workouts, help himself recover faster. But he found it also aided in his other training—the special training. His playing days were long over, but the nickname he loved, “Top Dog,” had stuck. Top Dog flipped down the vanity mirror and checked his reflection. A small, satisfied smile lifted a corner of his mouth. He liked what he saw. He ran a thick fingertip over a spot of marred skin above his right eyebrow. He thought of it as a medal earned in a just and necessary battle. An accident from before, when he hadn’t known how to control the flame. He had read the books and tried a few things at home. But tonight, he would practice on a real live human being. He stepped out of his car and turned in a circle, surveying the area. It was humid. Armpit-after-double-overtime humid. A cold drizzle needled his exposed hands and face. He hated this city’s weather almost as much as he hated coming to this part of town. It angered him to see how some people chose to live. Cheap real estate was the draw. Locally, the Seventh Ward was a saga. A soap opera of good times gone bad and everything in between. A labyrinth of curiously named streets in the shape of a broken-off rock shard. And for kicks, some genius had sliced the neighborhood in half with an overhead interstate. Lights spilled from a few windows. Aside from being able to thwart the mutiny he sensed was building, he was also glad of the chance to check on the construction progress. If his operation grew the way he planned, the three houses he’d purchased would be joined by many more. The contractors had been paid to do a lipstick job, nothing too fancy. Just enough to keep the place from being condemned. The first thing he spotted was the two windows that should have been replaced a week ago. Shutters were barely hanging on, but some idiot had painted them a bright white. He shook his head. He was right to come and check on his incompetent worker bees. With one last look around, Top Dog jogged up to the house. He paused at the door, anticipation building. Loud music was coming from inside. He didn’t knock but instead took the key from his pocket and thrust it into the lock. He turned the doorknob and stepped inside. Something hard crunched beneath his feet. Broken glass? Nails? The front room was dark, but light from the rear room told him where his number two was. His rules were simple: get the job done, no small talk with nosy neighbors, and to lessen the chance that rules one and two were broken, no drinking on the job. Yet the unmistakable skunky smell of beer rolled out and greeted him as if on a welcome mat. You couldn’t trust