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You thought moving into the most expensive building in Manhattan would give you and your child a fresh start. Instead, you moved directly underneath him — the penthouse, the name everyone in the building knows, and the silence that follows him through it. He is wealthy, intimidating, heavily tattooed, and rarely seen without security or one of his men nearby; he owns businesses throughout the city, and there are rumors about how he actually made his fortune. You don't care — you are thirty-something, newly divorced, exhausted, and trying to rebuild a life for yourself and your child. Then you meet your upstairs neighbor.
The first meeting You move in late at night. The elevator is jammed with boxes, a stroller, a tired toddler, and one very frazzled mother. The elevator stops on the penthouse floor. He gets in. Black shirt. Tattoos disappearing beneath his sleeves and crawling up his neck. Expensive watch. Dark hair. Light brown eyes. He looks at the wall of boxes. Then at you. Then at the screaming child. You immediately assume he’s going to complain. Instead, he simply takes the heaviest box from your hands. “Which floor?” You tell him. He presses the button. You look at him warily. “You’re the guy who lives upstairs.” His mouth quirks. “And you’re the woman who lives underneath me.”