Page 11 of Broomsticks and Bloodstains
“Cuando llueva al revés y tu esposa te da permiso,” I replied with a grin and a chuckle.
He cackled like an old woman.
“How has this mean ol’ city been treating you?” I asked him as I grabbed a rag to wipe down the bar next to him. The familiar weight of the rag in my hand, the clink of glasses, the low hum of conversation—these were the things that were familiar.
But even as I listened to Benito chatter away while I lined up pint glasses, I couldn’t shake the thought that my life had taken an unexpected turn.
And that somewhere out there, the man in the black mask hadn’t forgotten me.
The first couple of hours passed without incident. Regulars trickled in—Mike with his Yankees cap, already grumbling about the game; José, who always ordered a whiskey neat and tipped in quarters; a group of college kids who thought cheap pitchers of beer were a luxury. And, of course, a few new faces.
This was a typical Saturday night in my life. Uneventful—for the most part. Manageable, at least.
The next week passed without incident, and I had begun to relax. Back at O’Malley’s the following Saturday, I shook my head at how I’d probably let my mind create unnecessary worries.
Between orders, I leaned against the bar, taking a slow breath. Maybe I’d been imagining things. Maybe the man in the black mask had just been doing his job—whatever that job was—and I was nobody to him. A bartender who’d wandered into the wrong room. A face he’d forgotten by morning.
“Here you go,” I said as I set a bottle of beer in front of one of my customers at the bar. They shoved a dollar in the tip jar, and I thanked them with a smile before I went back to drying the clean glasses Brody had brought up from the kitchen.
The bell above the door jingled, barely audible over the increasing hum of music, laughter, and chatter.
I glanced up—and froze.
He filled the doorway, black coat all sharp lines against the glow of neon. No mask now, but I knew him instantly. Those eyes, cold and merciless, scanning the room like he was already cataloging exits and threats.
My stomach dropped. No, no, no, no, no…
He moved with purpose, shoulders squared, steps even and measured. Conversations dimmed as people instinctively shifted out of his way. As if the subconscious recognized predators, even if they didn’t know what kind of animal they were facing.
It didn’t take long before his gaze found me. His direction smoothly shifted as he approached my end of the bar.
The glass I’d been drying slipped. I caught it just before it shattered, my heart hammering in my chest. Though my knees wanted to give out, I forced myself to straighten and meet his stare like I had last night in that opulent hallway.
“What can I get you?” I asked, my voice steady by some miracle.
He didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, gaze locked on me like he was deciding what I was worth. Then, finally, he leaned forward on the bar.
“Vodka,” he said, his sexy accent curling around the word like smoke.
Knowing he wouldn’t want house vodka, I reached for the rarely used bottle on the top shelf. I poured it, careful not to spill, and slid the glass across to rest in front of him. Our fingers didn’t touch, but it felt like they did when heat sparked across the short distance.
He lifted the glass but didn’t drink. “Your name,” he said, low enough that only I could hear.
My throat went dry. I thought about lying, but something told me he’d know. Hell, he probably already knew my name, date of birth, and social. Men like him always knew.
Still, I forced a smile and replied, “Bartender.”
One side of his mouth curved, but it wasn’t truly a smile. It was something darker—yet irrationally sexy. “Not good enough, Sofia.”
My breath stuttered. I swallowed hard, my pulse pounding so fast and loud I was sure he could hear it.
And I knew—I was already in far deeper than I had any intention of being.
Chapter 9
Maksim
I’d told myself to stay away. To cut the thread clean, like Konstantin had said. But the truth was I hadn’t slept that first night. Not a goddamn hour.
