Page 5 of Bloody Lace

I frown, more confused than ever. “Protection from what? I’m sorry, I’m in the middle of—” I start to saybusiness with a client,but I don’t actually want this man to know that there’s someone in the other room if I can help it. I’m hoping with everything in me that her hearing is bad enough that she’s not picking up on this conversation. “Closing up,” I finish lamely, and he smirks at me.

“This will only take as long as you make it take,Evelyn.”

The fact that he knows my name sends a shudder through me. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘protection’,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible. “I need you to leave, or I’m calling the police.” My phone is in my back pocket, and I set one hand on my hip, inching my fingers back to press the side button rapidly if need be.

“You don’t want to do that. They can’t help you, Evelyn. But we can.”

“I don’t need help.” That comes out a little more assured, since I truly don’t know what this man is talking about. “I’m fine. And I’m going to be late for an event, so I need you to?—”

“This is a nice place you’ve got here.” He makes a show of looking around, and my chest tightens. “Unfortunately, it’s in Bratva territory. Yashkov territory. They’re dangerous, Evelyn.Verydangerous. Cruel, brutal men, especially when it comes to pretty young women like you. You need protection from them. So you pay us, and we make sure that they don’t interfere with you.”

Yashkov.The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.Maybe I heard it in a movie?Maybe it’s a common Russian surname.

“I don’t know much about the Bratva,” I tell the man in front of me, still struggling to keep my voice steady. “But I haven’thad any trouble with them so far. I don’t think that will change. Thanks for the offer, but?—”

“You don’tknowthat you haven’t had trouble with them.”

“I haven’t hadanytrouble for as long as I’ve had this shop.” My finger inches backwards, pressed against the side of my phone. “So I appreciate your concern, but I really need you to go. Or?—”

“You’ll call the police. I see what you’re doing right there.” He nods to where my hand is brushing against my phone. “I’m not stupid, Evelyn. And you don’t want to make enemies of us. Not when we’re just trying to help you.”

“Whoare you, anyway?” I snap, as quietly as I can manage. Any minute now, Angela is going to come out and ask me what’s taking so long. And I want this man gone before she does.

“Crows.” He taps a small patch on his vest, just over his chest. I hadn’t noticed it, but now I see that there’s an embroidered crow flying under a gold arch, with letters embroidered around it. I assume that has something to do with his standing in this—gang, but I don’t really care about that. What I care about is that he leaves my shop. “We don’t like the hold the Yashkov Bratva has here. And we aim to do something about it. We’ll make sure you don’t get caught in the crossfire.”

“And if I say no?”

The man smirks. “Well, I guess if you’re not with us, you’re against us. Guess you’re taking the side of the Bratva, then.”

Anger flares in my chest. “I’m not taking anysides,” I snap at him. “None of this has anything to do with me. I don’t even know if I believe you. Mobs, gangs—this is just a clothing boutique, and I don’t want anything to do with all of this. Soleave,please. Or I am going to call the police. The only reason I haven’t yet is that I don’t want to spend the rest of my evening here, giving a statement, instead of drinking with my friends at a Christmas party.” I narrow my eyes at him. “And I don’t think you want todeal with the cops, either. So just go. I’m not going to be extorted and I don’t want any part of…whatever this is.”

He chuckles. “You’re bold. I like that. Hang onto it, Evelyn. You’ll need it.”

I open my mouth to retort, but he’s already leaving, shoving open the door and letting in a burst of frigid air as he walks to a motorcycle parked near the curb, an all-black sportbike. I see the patch on the back of his vest as he goes—a larger version of the one on his chest, this time with a bloodied knife held in the crow’s beak.

The minute he’s gone, I go to the door, yanking the lock shut with shaking fingers. Angela still hasn’t emerged, and when I go back into the small consultation room, she’s sitting primly on the couch, her filled-out check sitting on the oval table.

“Is everything alright, dear? I thought I heard some conversation.”

“Absolutely fine,” I lie, grateful that her hearing aids clearly aren’t good enough to have picked up the conversation between myself and the Crow. “Just someone who came by the wrong store.”

I finish up with Angela, taking the check and writing down the last of her notes for the final alterations to her dress, and then escort her to the door. I walk her all the way to her driver waiting for her at the curb—I’m more than a little worried about her falling on the icy sidewalk—and then wrap my arms around myself against the chilly wind, looking around a bit nervously before heading back into the store to finish closing up.

Part of me knows that I should have called the cops anyway, and made a report. If that man, or any other member of his gang, comes back, it will help. It’ll establish a pattern of behavior, or something like that. But I wasn’t lying when I said that I didn’t want to spend my evening giving a statement to the police.

I have somewhere to be.Mykind of party, one with all of my friends, music, and laughter. The kind of party that this time of year feels happier and more festive than any other. I don’t want to miss it while waiting in my empty shop for a couple of NYPD officers to eventually make their way around to take a report down.

If I see anyone with a black vest, or a black sportbike hanging around, I’ll call,I tell myself as I stash Angela’s check in my purse and give the shop another once-over, before collecting my keys and makingverysure that the lock is secure this time.Maybe it was just some punk kid, playing a prank,I think as I start the walk back to my tiny studio apartment.

It’s five blocks, and it’s cold, but I don’t mind. The lights cheer me up, helping me shake the lingering feeling of unease left over from the Crow’s visit. The further I get from the shop and that uncomfortable moment, the more unreal it seems, fading back until I feel sure that it wasn’t as big of a deal as it felt at the time. Definitely some kid, getting off on scaring local business owners. Running a scam, maybe. I was right to stand my ground about it, I feel sure, and if I see any hint of him again, I definitelywillcall the police.

With that in mind, I head up to my tiny studio apartment. I hear my dog, Buttons, barking before I even open the door, and I no sooner step inside than I’m accosted by fifty pounds of energetic white fluff.

“Hey there, little guy,” I croon, running my hands through his fluffy fur as I drop my bag in the entryway and grab his harness. Buttons is anything but little, a marshmallow of three-year-old Samoyed, but I’ve called him that since he was a puppy that fit in my arms, and it’s stuck. “Let’s go walk, and then I’ve got a party to get to. I brought you something to keep you busy though, don’t worry.”

An hour later, Buttons is walked and fed, and happily chewing on a puzzle toy shaped like a Christmas tree and filled with treats. I’m in my party outfit—a dolman-sleeve forest green knit sweater with a fitted black leather skirt that has an asymmetrical leather ruffle at the hem, and a fringed and embroidered shawl, my hair thrown up in a pile of curls. I pull on my black velvet knee-high boots, ignoring how terrible they are for the weather, and as I do, a faint memory slips back into my mind.

You almost took a tumble, there.

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