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He beamed at me and held the door open. “I might do that.”
“Bye, Mr. Goldstein.”
I headed down the plush hall to the elevator. Everything in the building screamed old money. I felt like an imposter just being in the building. Like I had “daughter of a criminal” stamped on my head.
Pulling out my cell phone, I pulled up my accounting app and entered Mr. Goldstein’s callout. Next, I checked my messages.
Still nothing from Maguire.
Frowning, I bit my lip. That made it three days since I’d heard from my little brother. I shot him off a quick text.
“Text me back, Mag,” I muttered.
The elevator opened and I stepped in, trying not to worry about Maguire. He was an adult, but I’d practically raised him. Most days it felt like I had a twenty-four-year-old kid.
The elevator slowed and stopped at another floor. An older, well-dressed couple entered. They eyed me and my well-worn jeans like I’d crawled out from under a rock.
I smiled. “Good morning.”
Yeah, yeah, I’m not wearing designer duds, and my bank account doesn’t have a gazillion zeros. You’re so much better than me.
Ignoring them, I scrolled through Instagram. When we finally reached the lobby, the couple shot me another dubious look before they left. I strode out across the marble-lined space and rolled my eyes.
During my teens, I’d cared about what people thought. Everyone had known that my father was Terry O’Connor—expert thief, safecracker, and con man. I’d felt every repulsed look and sly smirk at high school.
Then I’d grown up, cultivated some thicker skin, and learned not to care.Fuck ‘em. People who looked down on others for things outside their control were assholes.
I wrinkled my nose. Okay, it was easier said than done.
When I walked outside, the street was busy. I smiled, breathing in the scent of New York—car exhaust, burnt meat, and rotting trash. Besides, most people cared more about themselves. They judged you, left you bleeding, then forgot you in the blink of an eye.
I unlocked my bicycle, and pulled on my helmet, then set off down the street. I needed to get to the store. The ride wasn’t long, but I spent every second worrying about Mag.
My brother had a knack for finding trouble. I sighed. After a childhood, where both our mothers had taken off, and Da was in and out of jail, Mag was entitled to being a bit messed up. The O’Connors were a long way from the Brady Bunch.
I pulled up in front of my shop in Hell’s Kitchen and stopped for a second.
I grinned.All mine.
Okay, I didn’t own the building, but I owned the store. The sign above the shop saidLady Locksmith. The logo was lipstick red—a woman’s hand with gorgeous red nails, holding a set of keys.
After I locked up my bike, I strode inside. A chime sounded.
God, I loved the place. It was filled with glossy, warm-wood shelves lined with displays of state-of-the-art locks and safes. A key-cutting machine sat at the back.
A blonde head popped up from behind a long, shiny counter.
“You’re back,” Sabrina said.
My best friend looked like a doll—small, petite, with a head of golden curls.
We’d met doing our business degrees at college, and had become fast friends. Sabrina had always wanted to be tall and sexy, but had to settle for small and cute. She was my manager, and was getting married in a month.
“Yeah, Mr. Goldstein forgot his safe code again,” I said.
Sabrina snorted. “That old coot doesn’t forget, he just likes looking at your ass.”
“He’s harmless. He’s nice, and lonely. How’s the team doing?”
