Page 8 of A Dark Mafia Christmas

“I found it.”

Her mouth opens into a round ‘O’. “You gave me someone else’s ring?”

I can’t help but chuckle. “You witnessed a murder, and you’re worried about wearing another woman’s ring?”

“Ugh! It’s just … wrong. This diamond was given to a woman by the person in love with her. It’s a symbol of … love. It’s… It’s someone else’s love story, and now I feel like shit for encroaching on it.”

“It wasn’t your fault. I gave it to you. You can blame me for encroaching on someone else’s love story.”

She closes her eyes briefly and leans her head back against the seat. “How can you be so blasé about all this?”

“All this?”

She rolls her head across the seat to look at me. “A guy got thrown off a roof. The roof of your building.” Pause. “Shit! Won’t the police need to question everyone who was there? Won’t you need an alibi or something?” Tears well in her eyes. “That man won’t be going home for Christmas. Don’t you even feel bad for his family?”

“Sure, I do.” Jesus, say it like you mean it, asshole. “But the truth is…”

Mary’s eyes are closed, lips parted into a perfect Cupid’s bow, her breathing shallow.

4

MARY

Something is humming in my ears. I’m half-awake, that strange place between two worlds where I can either drift gently back into whatever comforting dream I was having, or snatch hold of my thoughts and allow them to drag me back to reality. My eyelids are heavy, so heavy, but I’ve already gone too far.

Goddammit!

I roll over, keep my eyes firmly closed, try to concentrate on the colors dancing around behind my eyelids. Relax. Let my thoughts slip away…

Do these relaxation techniques actually work on anyone?

The humming is back. I slide my hand out from under the comforter and reach for my phone on the nightstand, but it isn’t there. I can’t hear my alarm. Is it even a workday?

Voices.

My eyes fly open, and I try to sit up, but the world slips away from me, and I bury my head in the pillow, waiting for the room to settle.

“I’ll leave you to it.” I don’t recognize the man’s voice. Has someone broken into my apartment?

Deep breath. Try to still my frantic heart. But everything feels off-kilter; this doesn’t even smell like my pillow. Then an image pops into my head: a man being thrown off the roof.

Panic builds up inside me like a tidal wave, and I force myself into a sitting position, wincing as my head spins. Jesus, how much did I drink last night? I never drink at office parties. Did someone try to get me drunk… Did someonespikemy drink?

Emmett fucking O’Hara!

“Here, drink this, it’ll make you feel better.”

My fingers are pried open, and a glass is placed into my hand. I open my eyes to find Emmett fucking O’Hara looking at me with concern in those clear blue eyes. I take a sip, track the ice-cold water through my body, and then guzzle the rest of it, shuddering as it goes down.

“Did you spike my drink?” My words are slurred like I’m a raging alcoholic with a permanent hangover.

“I wouldn’t say spiked exactly.” There’s a faint hint of amusement in his tone.

“What would you say then?” The water is threatening to come back out, and I can’t be sick in Emmett O’Hara’s house, not if I want a job to come back to in the New Year. He’s sitting too close to me, and I can’t think clearly. “Did we…?”

He shakes his head, the kind of smile on his face that would launch a thousand ships, or something like that. “No, we didn’t have sex if that’s what you’re asking.”

Thank the fucking lordy lord.

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