Page 3 of A Dark Mafia Christmas

“What?” Max shakes his head and takes a step closer. “What did I do?”

“Stay away from me!” Hazel’s face is growing pinker by the second. “I can’t believe you would do this to me. It’s Christmas…” The tears spill at the mention of the most wonderful time of the year, like she could forgive him if it was January already.

Max, a tall lanky guy who’s all knees and elbows, peers all around like someone might rescue him before it’s too late. “I don’t even know what I’ve done.”

“You fucking kissed her, you asshole!”

Hazel struggles to tug her engagement ring off her sweaty finger, and when it finally comes free, she tosses it at her fiancé and storms off. A group of women follow her, calling out for her to come back and talk about it.

Max watches, frozen, for a few beats. Then he too turns around and walks off in the opposite direction. He doesn’t even stop to pick up the ring.

Everyone else seems to gravitate into their own little groups, voicing their opinions on what just happened. No one seems to care that Hazel has thrown away a ring that will break her heart tomorrow when she realizes that it’s gone.

But I saw it land. Well, I saw it hit the floor and roll away, surprisingly close to the toes of my shiny black shoes. I bend down and retrieve it from underneath a bar stool and slide it into my pocket. I’ll email Sonia later and let her know that I’ve got it—she’ll know what to do.

Drama over, I scan the room for red-haired girl, my stomach twisting with disappointment when I realize that she must’ve left while I was distracted.

I down my soda in one, and order another.

2

MARY

There’s a spill-out bar and seating area on the roof of the building for anyone who wants some fresh air. Well, as fresh as it gets in New York City. The space is strung with fairy lights, and there are warm blankets heaped up in baskets for anyone who wants to stay up here a while and get cozy on the plump sofas.

It’s how these people live. They take all this stuff for granted.Champagne? No problem, here’s a bottle of Moet, vintage don’t you know.

I find a quiet corner and peer over the railings around the edge of the wall at the city skyline. The Empire State Building. Rockefeller Plaza where the people who are ice skating look like ants from up here. The Chrysler building.

I smile to myself. I took my surname from the Chrysler building when I first arrived in New York. Before that, I was plain old Mary Scanlan. Mary Chrysler sounded way more exciting, and it meant that no one would be able to find me, not that anyone was looking.

From the party downstairs, I can hear Bruce Springsteen belting out ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’. It’s one of my favorites. Who doesn’t love a Christmas tune, especially the old bangers; they just don’t make them like that anymore.

I haven’t really thought much about Christmas. I mean, you can’t avoid it with the tree in the Plaza, and the stores all wrapped up in tinsel and fairy lights and giant red ribbons, but I mean, I haven’t thought aboutmyChristmas. I’ll spend it alone in my crappy little apartment, watching cheesy movies—God I hope there’s a new Lindsay Lohan Christmas movie this year—drinking cheap wine, and snacking on even cheesier crisps.

Potato chips.Eight years in the States, and I still can’t get used to calling them potato chips.

Favorite Christmas movie?Home Alone. Miracle on 34thStreet. The Santa Clause. There are too many to choose just one, but I always start the holidays binge-watching every Christmas movie featuring Melissa Joan Hart. I mean,Holiday in Handcuffsis an absolute classic, and I defy anyone to tell me otherwise.

I have a stack of romance novels to read, too. Merry Christmas to me.

Someone yells. A guy. My hackles are up—this isn’t the kind of yell that belongs at a Christmas party.

I glance sideways along the roof as a beefy man in a black suit rugby-tackles another guy, thick arms wrapping around his legs, and hurls him over the edge.

What the actual fuck?

That didn’t just happen. I blink. My blood is pumping around my veins and making me hot despite the sub-zero temperatures and the frost clinging to the walls.

What the actual fuck?

Someone just went over the side of the roof, and no one has moved, no one has screamed, no one has called the fucking police, which is what should be happening right about now.

Move, Mary. Fucking move, would you?

But my body isn’t cooperating with my brain, which is screaming at me to take a breath, look over the side, yell at someone to stop the crazy fucking psycho who just killed a man.

I open my mouth to let out the scream that’s building up inside me, when a hand clamps over my face, and I’m dragged backwards behind a potted palm tree all lit up for Christmas in its twinkling fairy lights.

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