Page 23 of Mafia Obsession

“Okay.” I nod, though I haven’t agreed to anything.

“I’m sorry, Lourdes, really,” Nathan says, notsoundingvery sorry.

“Me, too.” I leave his office, anxiety churning my stomach.

I walk back into the main room and to my desk as if moving through murky water.

Around me, the office continues its dismantling, buzzing excitement mingling with the scrape of shipping tape and boxes slamming onto the ceramic tile floor.

I sit and stare at my laptop.

If I open it now, create a backup account, and begin copying files, it will look suspicious. If I resist handing it over, that will look worse. If I run with it…

What if the new owner hires a real auditor who will find discrepancies? I’ll be arrested. While a jail cell might seem preferable to living with David and his temper, it would not help me get my sister the care she needs.

When I finally carry the laptop into Nathan’s office and set it on his desk, tears build behind my eyes, and my hands feel numb.

The risks I took to build up that account. The care I took. All that money is gone. But what choice do I have?

“Here,” I say and tell him the passcode.

“Thanks, Lourdes.” He takes it from me and tosses it intoone of the boxes.

I leave, not remembering what I said in return.

Since I’m not moving, I’m no longer employed here. After brief goodbyes to Marisol and Benny, I amble out into the afternoon sun. It’s dipped low enough to stain the sky a muted orange. An autumn chill has blown into Manhattan.

I hold it all together until I’m inside my apartment. Bracing for what David will say, I’m grateful for the silence and not that stupid game. I look around and spot a piece of paper on the coffee table.

A note scribbled in his sloppy handwriting says he’ll be in Boston for a few days. Under the paper is a twenty-dollar bill.

With a burst of anger, I kick over the coffee table and tear up the note. The measly twenty bucks is his way of ensuring I don’t go out and, God forbid, have fun. Have a life. But his being gone gives me a sugar rush of happiness that nearly buckles my knees.

I set my empty workbag down and lean against the counter, breathing. Hunger takes over, so I preheat the oven and slide in a frozen pizza. I pour a glass of wine from the bottle I hid under the counter. It’s from the last time David traveled. I sip it and sigh. Stored in the dark and corked properly, it’s held its sweetness and hasn’t turned into vinegar.

Scrolling through job listings, I eat the pizza and finish off the bottle of wine. A dull warmth settles over me and dulls the sharpest edges of my panic.

With no other plans, I draw a bath, and when it’s filled, I sink into it. The hot water loosens muscles I didn’t realize had been clenched for hours.

Things will be better tomorrow. That’s the wine talking, but who cares?

An hour later, I’m wrapping myself in a towel when my cell rings. I freeze, thinking it’s David. But it’s from an unfamiliar yet valid number with a 212-area code.

“Hello?” I answer cautiously.

“Is this Lourdes Sinclair?” a woman’s crisp voice asks.

“Yes. Who is this?” I sit on the edge of the bed, thinking it’s the FBI.

Wouldn’t they just knock the door down?

“Nathan Craig gave me your number,” she says in lieu of saying who she is. “Said you can’t relocate to New Jersey with him.”

My pulse quickens. “That’s right.”

“I have an opportunity that may suit you,” she continues. “I’m going to text you an address. Be there at eight a.m. tomorrow.”

God, Nathan! Thank you!