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Romy
NoHo, Manhattan.
The rain is relentless. Fat droplets land on the business card in my hand, drowning the letters until the name and address are no longer legible. It doesn’t matter; both are carved into my brain forever, just like how lovers etch their name into a tree.
Donnacha Quinn, resident of One Diabhal Square. A big, blocky skyscraper with black glass windows and a spire that disappears into the fog.
The wind lashes my cheeks, forcing its way down the neck of my puffer jacket, but I don’t cower from it. Because today, I’m not cowering from anything. Anybody.
Drawing a deep breath and straightening my spine, I march up the three stone steps that separate the building from the street. Someone inside must have been watching me because the glass door swings open, revealing a hard-faced man in a black suit. Dark eyes, shaved head, and a scowl to match the weather. But today, I refuse to be intimidated.
I slither past him into the warmth of the lobby. “I’m here to see Donnacha Quinn,” I announce, dusting the rain off my jacket. The man’s gaze drops to the water pooling at my Chelsea boots, disdain curling his top lip.
“I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”
He strides into the mouth of the building, disappearing down a hallway. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I take the chance to look around. Jesus, it looks like the waiting room of a high-end spa. Black marble walls melt into matching floors, with only thin rivers of gold running through the veins to break up the darkness. In the center, a gray semi-circle slab with a MacBook and a telephone on top of it acts as a desk.
Creepy. Instinctively, my fingers brush over the small lump tucked into the waistband of my panties.
Footsteps echo. The sour-faced man reappears as a silhouette at the end of the corridor. “Come.”
Annoyance prickles up my arms and chest at being summoned like a naughty dog that’s escaped its leash, but I bite my tongue and click-clack down the hall, falling into step with him. We turn into another hallway, where a bank of elevators is cut into the marble wall. The one at the end is slightly different from the rest. Instead of a gold call button, it has an iPad-sized screen and a gold plaque above it. Sour-faced man takes a step toward it before turning to me and deepening his scowl.
I glance between him and the tablet, then roll my eyes as I turn my head. “Jeez, all you had to do was ask,” I mutter under my tongue. There’s the sound of beefy fingers hitting glass, then the hiss of hydraulics. A few moments pass before the elevator door pings open. The man steps aside, and as I enter the small, velvet-clad box, a familiar feeling zaps through me. A cocktail of adrenaline and nerves and determination. It floods through my veins like I’m being fed it through an IV drip.
Breathe, Romy. Just fucking breathe. This is no different from any other job you’ve had.
Except I feel like I’m entering the lion’s den with a rubber sword.
The elevator climbs to dizzying heights, eventually coming to a gentle stop. Just before the doors open, I hear something over the thumping of my heartbeat. My attention slashes to the sour-faced man. He’s staring right at me, wearing a ghost of a smirk on his lips.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said good luck.”
I snort, but it comes out as more of a whimper. Luck? I’ve never had a single stroke of luck in my life, so why would I rely on it now?
No, the only thing I can rely on is myself.
Stepping out of the elevator disorientates me for a second. The atmosphere is a complete contrast to the lobby. The room is dazzlingly bright instead of dark, and there’s constant chatter instead of silence. That chatter stops as soon as I’m noticed.
A few people in suits are dotted around the room. They look down their noses and flash me polite and professional smiles. Clinging to the walls are lines of men in all black, looking alert and scary. Suddenly, it dawns on me that they are security guards. I spin back to the elevator, but the doors are already sliding closed. With a sigh, I turn my attention back to the room, drinking it all in. It’s a soccer field-sized space where every monochromatic shade on the Pantone color chart seems to exist in harmony. Overstuffed cream sofas, white marble walls, and a black spiral staircase leading off to parts unknown. Past the abstract statues and glossy tabletops, the entire New York skyline is framed by a sheet of uninterrupted glass. I’d find it incredibly impressive, if, you know, I wasn’t here to marry a man who wanted to kill me less than seventy-two hours ago.
“Romy?”
A gentle voice makes me jolt, and I turn around to find a woman with features as soft as her tone. She’s short and curvy, with long black hair disappearing into the darkness of her turtleneck sweater. Her warm smile instantly takes the edge off. “I’m Aisling,” she says, sticking out a hand. “Can I take your jacket?”
Something about her is real familiar, something I can’t place. I clutch at the hem of my jacket and shake my head. “No, thank you. I won’t be staying for long.”
She laughs politely as if I’ve told a joke she didn’t find very funny and holds out her hand. Begrudgingly, I slip off my jacket and hand it to her. “Whew, it’s chucking buckets out there!” she chimes, giving my puffer a good shake and letting water droplets slosh on the floor. “I’ll get this dry for you, then I’ll hang it in the cloakroom, okay?”
Cloakroom?Gee, how the other half lives.
“I—”
But somebody on the other side of the room has caught her eye. She mouths something, then nods before touching my elbow and leading me across the marble floor to a table in the corner. “Romy, please meet Abe Cooper. He’ll ask you a few questions and get all the paperwork in order.” I lock eyes with the old man with the half-moon spectacles and liver-spotted forehead. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Oh, hell, I’ll bring both,” she breezes before striding out of the room in her heeled boots.
My eyes land back on the man at the table. He flashes me an apologetic grin and says, “Romy, hi. Please take a seat.”
