Page 24 of Mafia Obsession

Before I can ask again where she’s calling from, the line goes dead, and my screen fades back to black.

I stare at the phone for a long moment before the text message arrives. The address is on Wall Street. I pull it up on my phone and see it’s near the U.N.

I have nothing to lose, and I can’t believe my luck. After dressing for bed, I walk to the window to close the drapes, but freeze when from across the street, I notice a man staring up at my bedroom window. His side of the street is dimly lit, and the glow of the lamps casts elongated shadows across the pavement.

At first, I think it’s a trick of the light, a distortion created by wine and exhaustion. But the figure doesn’t fade away. He stands tall and broad-shouldered, his posture unmistakably deliberate, his gaze angled upward. Right on me.

It reminds me of Ares. Though it can’t be him. That confident, distinguished man who I’d had a brief encounter with would not be standing there, looking up atmyapartment window.

But the thought that it could be makes my breath catch, not entirely in fear. It’s a feeling I once thought was dead. That hum of arousal deep in my center. I close my eyes and imagine Ares naked walking toward me. Broad. Toned. Hungry.

For me.

I sigh that ridiculous fantasy away. I draw the curtain closed. Ares and I barely exchanged names. He has no idea where I live.

He probably doesn’t even remember me.

Chapter 9

Lourdes

The next morning, I take my time getting ready. I don’t have the usual urge to get out of the apartment before David wakes up. The extra time allows me to pay more attention to my looks. I blow out my hair, rather than stick it on top of my head or pull it back into a bun.

Digging through my closet, I find a taupe knock-off sheath dress that could pass for expensive if the light is dim enough and no one looks too closely to see it’s polyester. Paired with a conservative black jacket, it passes for professional and feminine. Despite the voice on the phone being female, I could be interviewing with a man. So instead of low black riding boots, I’ll suffer it out with heels.

The subway ride is typical for a crowded morning rush. Butthiscrowd heading to Wall Street looks a lot different than the ones I’m used to. My back snaps straighter, and I force myself to believe this is where I belong.

I need this job, whatever it is. Now more than ever. It’s my only hope to help Sandrine. Losing access to my hidden money means I’m back to square one.

On the sidewalk, the wind in Lower Manhattan knifes between the buildings, making this part of the city feel colder than midtown. The address leads me to a building that’s straight from the Gothic era. It’s imposing and looks carved rather than built. The white stone façade has been darkened by decades of weather and a brackish wind from the East River.

Unlike newer buildings made of all glass, its narrow windows sit between the outer skin like watchful eyes. There is no company name above the door. Just the address number. The text didn’t include a floor or any other instructions.

Inside, the lobby’s ceiling is a series of vaulted arches above marble floors that gleam under chandeliers hanging like inverted crowns. This is a world away from Nathan’s building, and the people are dressed very well. I pull at my jacket, not knowing if I’ll fit in.

I clock a woman in her fifties approaching me before I can reach the reception desk. Her gray hair is cut short and looks severe, framing a face composed in a way that suggests she’s seen just about everything. She wears a perfectly tailored navy pantsuit that clings to her frame.

“Lourdes,” she says firmly, not asking.

“Yes.”

“Follow me.” She nods once and turns.

I bristle at the lack of a welcome or even a handshake. But I follow as I’m told.

Crossing the lobby, I notice people lower their heads when she passes. Not dramatically, not theatrically, but unmistakably. Most notably, she doesn’t acknowledge them back.

She leads me past the bank of elevators, through a doorway, and then down a corridor paneled in dark wood. At the end is a single steel elevator door. The woman inserts a keycard into a slot on the side, and the door opens.

I follow her inside, and we ride up in silence.

Trying to calm down, I take note of the elevator lined in mirrored glass. Discreetly, I check to see how my hair and makeup held up on the subway. My blonde hair beams in the ceiling light and doesn’t look washed out. The same goes for my skin, thanks to the extra layer of makeup needed to cover the lingering bruise from David’s backhand days ago.

Next to me, the woman is all composed stillness with her hands folded lightly in front of her waist.

I wait for her to say something. She stays silent. The only sound is the gentle popping of my ears, signaling we are rising to a very high floor.

Great, I’ll be working next to one of those gargoyles I saw from the sidewalk.