Page 62 of Convenient Mafia Vows

I wander the streets, matching the city pace of the other pedestrians, gripping Abigail’s hand so tightly, she squirms in my grip. “Where are we going now?” she asks.

“We’re still looking for Auntie Sienna.” I glimpse Martin and the driver, a few paces behind us, out of the corner of my eye. This would be easier without them tailing us like private investigators.

My heart is racing, and my mouth is dry. This is like looking for a speck of glitter on a thick-pile rug. There are millions of peoplein this city, and they all seem to have spewed out of the buildings and onto the streets at once.

Without thinking, I dip inside Macy’s department store. The heady aroma of perfume, rather than making my head spin like cotton candy, almost feels welcoming. I worked here for six months when Abigail was a baby, so my brain instinctively associates the smells, and the buzz of sales taking place over counters laden with glamorous bottles, with safety.

I scan the aisles, but there are too many people moving in both directions for me to pick out individual faces.

Then, I catch a glimpse of a black leather jacket, collar bunched awkwardly around the back of the wearer’s neck, hair the same color as mine and Abigail’s.

“Mason?” I pick up speed, dragging Abigail along with me.

“Daddy?” She runs to keep up with me. “Where is he?”

“Mason!” Louder this time. But he doesn’t hear me because he keeps moving, doesn’t even glance over his shoulder.

A group of Asian women—tourists maybe—loaded up with shopping bags, blocks our path, and I quickly dart between perfume counters and out the other side, craning my neck to view the next aisle for a glimpse of a beaten-up leather jacket.

I can’t see him now. Where did he go?

Sienna is forgotten momentarily. If I can find Mason, it will be one less person to worry about, and maybe then, I’ll stop adding up the coincidences and start looking at Sienna’s whereabouts logically.

We dart between counters, dodging shoppers and sales assistants. I remember the layout of the store, and when I reach the escalator, I drag Abigail onto it, brushing past people checking their cell phones and the contents of their shopping bags, and don’t turn around until we’re halfway, so that I scan the lower level before we reach the top.

Maybe I was so desperate to find him that I imagined Mason. There’s no sign of a leather jacket anywhere now. My eyes dart to the exits, praying that, if he’s here, I’ll catch him before he leaves. But no one even remotely resembles my brother.

It isn’t until I reach the cosmetics department on the third floor that I realize we’re no longer being followed. I stop and scan the men’s Levi section and the windows of Starbucks.

“Where’s Daddy?” Abigail asks.

My shoulders slump. I raised her hopes for nothing, and now I have to let her down all over again.

Crouching in front of her, I keep my voice lighthearted. “I don’t think it was him, sweetie. I’m sorry.” I smile. “Did you see where Martin went?”

She shakes her head. “I heard them calling us.”

“You did?” I must’ve been so focused on finding Mason that I didn’t even hear them.

I stand up, peering around the store at the busy counters, the men rifling through racks of denim, the women getting their complimentary makeup done, reclining on comfy seats, eyes closed. There are people feeding stringy pizza wedges into their mouths at the pizza bar. Friends sharing caramel lattes inside Starbucks. Sales assistants eyeing up their next sale.

I feel like I can breathe again without our shadows. Like I’m just Victoria Callahan out running errands with her niece, and not someone who associates with billionaire bachelors like Caleb Murray.

“Well,” I say to Abigail, “now we can look for Auntie Sienna without worrying about them following us.”

“There they are.” Abigail points in the direction of the escalators at the two men in black suits.

Without thinking, I dart into the stairwell, tugging Abigail along behind me. “Do you want frozen yogurt?” I don’t even wait for her to answer. I know that she loves frozen yogurt.

We’re both breathing heavily by the time we reach the seventh floor. I quickly buy a tub of yogurt for Abigail and then head to the elevators. I’m taking a chance that the men will stick to the escalators; it would be impossible for two men to cover all levels and all methods of moving around the store. But I also realize that they’ll probably call for backup when they can’t find us.

“Come on.” I stare at the panel inside the elevator, willing it to go faster, and praying that the doors won’t open to reveal one of the men waiting for us. Because now that we’ve evaded them, I just want to be left alone to find my friend.

We make it outside to W 34thStreet, and I glance around the sidewalk, making sure they’re not waiting for us.

They’re not. I don’t know how we managed it, but I get a small thrill of pleasure at the thought of losing Caleb’s bodyguard in Macy’s department store.

Walking quickly, we head towards Madison Square Garden. The streets are busy. Tourists stand outside the building takingselfies. Businessmen in smart suits walk briskly with their cell phones held in front of their faces. Yellow cabs beep their horns at the slow-moving traffic. There are sirens in the distance, the emergency services battling the Saturday morning chaos to attend whatever incident they’ve been called to.

---