Page 1 of Day Shift

Chapter one

Dropping the last of the day’s paperwork on my desk, I slumped down in my chair with an exasperated huff. The late afternoon doldrums had set in, and I couldn’t help but glance at the clock every other minute. Only fifteen more and I could escape this stifling cage of books and whispered conversations for a couple of days off—the weekend promised freedom.

“Anastasia,” my elderly colleague, Marjorie, called out in her perpetually soft voice. “Could you reshelve these returns before you leave?”

“Of course. Happy to help,” I said with a tight smile. My heart sank as I eyed the teetering stack of books on the cart she ever so slowly pushed in front of my door. Marjorie was an older woman who had taken me under her wing when I’d first started working at the library. How could I tell her no?

Here at the Roosevelt Library, I spent my days drowning in historical and political documents. I was the keeper of countless volumes, each one a testament to past power struggles and societal shifts. For the last six years of my life, I had protected these documents and ensured they remained in good condition so they could enlighten future generations with their tales of political intrigue and historical milestones.

Situated in Columbus Hall on the Eveningside Heights campus of Kennedy University in New York City, this library served as a veritable gold mine for those with a penchant for political science and the city’s history, attracting the university’s students, faculty, and researchers traveling in from other universities to consult the more unique materials. Right after graduation, the job had practically fallen into my lap, and I hadn’t been able to say no. I had to maintain the pretense of being a well-bred, well-educated, well-behaved young woman of society to keep the family happy, and this job served its purpose well. Working at this prestigious university bolstered my résumé in a world where appearances were everything—a necessary evil.

The sooner I finished with my work here, the sooner I could head home and slip into my true self—the one that thrived in the darkness, unburdened by the expectations of family and society.

Methodically, I sorted through the returns, organizing them by call number, and positioned them on the cart, standing on their edges with the spines visible. My mind wandered to the club. It was where my heart was, where I longed to be. The anticipation of spending my weekends running it kept me sane during the long, monotonous hours I spent in the library stacks.

An hour and a half later, as I was finally squaring everything away, Mr. Henley, my boss, came down the aisle and cleared his throat behind me. I was stooped over, digging through the bottom drawer of an ancient-looking filing cabinet, so I slammed it shut and jerked to a standing position.

“Anastasia, locking up soon?” he asked, peeking over his glasses at me.

“Yes, just wrapping up,” I said, pulling open the top drawer and slipping the last file into place. My movements were precise, practiced—exhibiting the responsible employee facade I had perfected.

“I’m sure you’re aware it’s more than an hour past closing,” he said with a frown. “You need to head on out. Remember, the university frowns on paying staff overtime.” With that, he continued moving down the aisle.

“Trust me, I’m more than ready to be out of here,” I mumbled, heading toward my small office, where I quickly shut off my computer and gathered my things.

Crossing the library, I headed toward the exit on the north side, which was the quickest route to the 116th Street subway station. I hoped the train would be a little less crowded since it was after seven o’clock.

The moment I stepped outside, New York City’s cacophony of sounds enveloped me. Horns blared and people shouted, mingling with the distant wail of a siren. The scent of hot kebabs wafted through the air, momentarily overpowering the familiar odor of diesel exhaust from a nearby food truck.

“Hey, watch it!” a man barked as he bumped into me, nearly knocking me off-balance.

“You watch it,” I muttered, not bothering to glance at him.

The subway station came into view. The green light at the top of the subway steps blinked on, as a streetlight illuminated a nearby navy-blue sign displaying the university’s name in crisp white Helvetica. Hurriedly, I descended the steps, the ground beneath my feet rumbling with the approach of a train. I swiped my phone across the sensor and pushed through the turnstile, joining the throng of commuters on the platform.

“Stand clear of the closing doors,” a disembodied voice announced as I squeezed into the crowded car. “Downtown 1 to South Ferry, next stop one-ten,” the conductor shouted over the muffled PA system. Around me, the other passengers stared blankly or tapped away at their phones. Beads of sweat formed across my forehead from the stifling heat.

Soon, the train was jostling along, the sharp screech of metal-on-metal blaring through the car. The overhead fluorescents threw a harsh light on the sea of blank faces around me. I held onto the overhead handrail, leaning against the cool glass of the train doors, my eyes stuck on my reflection—a ghostly image against the fast-moving dark tunnels outside. The rhythmic clatter of wheels became a monotonous rumble, and time seemed to stretch on as I stood there gazing at the window. The dull chatter of passengers blended with the noise of the train, creating an urban soundtrack that was both familiar and soothing.

As the train took us farther into Manhattan’s core, stopping and starting to let passengers on and off, my thoughts drifted to the night ahead at my favorite place on Earth. I barely registered the stops before my own, mentally going over the millions of things that needed to be done once I got to the club. The flickering lights outside the window seemed to dance with my wandering thoughts. I anticipated the influential clients I would greet, the music that would fill the air, and the edgy familiarity of the club.

“Next stop, 18th Street,” the voice called out, barely audible above the noise of the train. I was past ready for the pulsating beats of Club Xyst, the taste of a strong cocktail on my lips, and—most importantly—the freedom to be my true self, even if just for a few stolen hours.

“Eighteenth Street,” the voice announced, snapping me out of my thoughts. The train screeched to a stop, its doors sliding open with a whoosh. I stepped out onto the platform and took a deep breath, the humid summer air smelling like a stinky sauna.

The moment I stepped off the stairs and onto the sidewalk, the familiar sights and sounds of my neighborhood embraced me. Brownstone buildings lined quiet side streets, their stoic facades softened by stoops adorned with potted plants and colorful window boxes. Laughter and music spilled from open windows.

“Hey, Anastasia!” called Mrs. O’Malley from her perch on a nearby stoop. She waved at me and gave me a warm smile. The elderly woman was always there, reading the Times and watching over the neighborhood like a guardian angel.

“Hi, Mrs. O’Malley,” I replied, returning her wave as I passed. Home awaited me just a few doors down, its red-brick exterior and wrought-iron railings welcoming me back after a long day at work.

Six steps up, I keyed in my code, then shoved open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside the vestibule separating it from my front door.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind me, I breathed in the welcoming scents of home—waxed wood and a hint of lavender. This was a haven funded by my real father’s dubious generosity, a fact I tolerated for the independence it afforded me.

I was quick to kick off my sensible shoes and shrug out of my cardigan, sighing as a cool stream of air washed over my skin. I was eager to leave behind the good little librarian and mafia daughter personas for the night.

By day, I was Anastasia Genovese, a librarian with an impeccable pedigree, trapped in a life mapped out by my family. By night, I was someone else entirely, a woman who commanded the shadows of Club Xyst with confidence and gusto.

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