Page 2 of Broomsticks and Bloodstains
At O’Malley’s, I dealt with college kids pounding cheap beer and old men who thought tipping a quarter was generous. Here? Every drink order was like a scene out of The Great Gatsby. French champagne, top-shelf vodka, bourbon so smooth I was afraid to so much as touch the bottle. The women floated past in feathered masks and gowns worth more than my entire yearly salary. The men looked like predators disguised in tuxedos, their faces hidden behind sleek Venetian masks, their eyes glinting like they knew the world—and owned it.
“Two martinis. Extra cold.” A man in a silver wolf mask leaned across the bar, his cologne sharp and expensive. His dark gaze raked over me like I was part of the menu. It had me fighting the urge to pull the strapless dress up for the five-hundredth time of the night. I was one sneeze away from my boobs spilling out onto the bar like cheap champagne.
“Coming right up,” I said, plastering on a smile I didn’t feel. He winked, leaving a crisp hundred on the counter like it was pocket change.
A woman dripping in diamonds waved impatiently for champagne, barely looking at me when I set the glass down. “Finally,” she muttered, like I wasn’t even human. She tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar with a roll of her eyes. I guess she thought the ten was an insult. Thank you very much for breakfast in the morning, I thought as I tucked it away.
The money was real, but the air was suffocating. Everyone was drunk on their own power, drunk on secrets hidden behind painted masks. I kept moving, kept pouring, reminding myself that one night here could ease the pile of bills stuffed in my kitchen drawer.
Isabella breezed by with a tray stacked high with crystal flutes, her cheeks flushed, hairline damp with sweat. She wobbled slightly under the weight. For the first time all night, my bar was empty.
“Jesus, Isa,” I said, grabbing her elbow to steady her. “You’re going to drop that.”
“I’m fine,” she panted, though she looked anything but. “They just asked me to take three drinks to Popov’s study upstairs. Of course they would pick me when I can barely breathe.”
“Give them here.” I slid the tray out of her hands, balancing it easily. “I’ve got no customers right now. You sit down before you pass out.”
Her eyes went wide. “No, Sofe—don’t. It’s not like delivering beers at O’Malley’s. Popov doesn’t like people snooping around where they shouldn’t.”
I smirked. “I’m not snooping. I’m delivering whiskey.”
She bit her lip, lowering her voice. “Just… don’t linger in there. He doesn’t like people seeing his business. Understand?”
Her warning sent a shiver down my spine, but I lifted the tray anyway. “Relax. It’ll take a minute.”
She lifted her masquerade mask to pat at the sweat with a small, square napkin. “Thanks, chica. Just… hurry,” she warned.
I didn’t know it then, but that one minute was about to change everything.
Chapter 3
Maksim
I hated these fucking parties.
The masks. The glitter. The empty laughter spilling from painted mouths. All of it was noise—soft, meaningless noise to cover the sound of the real business being done in the shadows.
I stood near the edge of the ballroom, a glass of vodka in my hand, though I hadn’t taken more than a sip. My mask was simple, black leather, enough to play the game but not enough to make me look like one of them. I wasn’t one of them. I wasn’t here to be charmed by champagne and silk dresses. I was here to make sure Boris Volkov’s presence carried weight and that no one dared cross him while he was entertained by Igor Popov and the Russian diplomat who’d also been invited by Igor tonight.
In our world, I was feared for my ruthlessness. Dressing me up in a mask and surrounding me with luxury didn’t change who or what I was. None of that superficial bullshit mattered to me. The only currency that meant shit to me was loyalty.
Boris wasn’t my “boss” the way people imagined. We weren’t organized the way the Sicilian mafia was, we were simply a… brotherhood. We had certain business interests that we cultivated, and we ran very much under the radar of the law. We weren’t flashy and brazen. Instead, we were quiet, cunning, and loyal to each other. The way we ran things had made us all very rich men.
My good friend, Konstantin Makarov, stood at my side, his posture deceptively casual, though I knew better. He was sharp as a blade, always calculating. Soon he’d be leaving New York for Chicago, taking over the small group of Bratva there. Depending on when things finalized, tonight might be one of the last times we stood shoulder to shoulder.
Dima was next to him, also on watch.
“Too many eyes in this room,” Konstantin muttered in Russian, his gaze sweeping across the crowd of masks and jewels.
“Too many mouths,” I replied, pretending to take a sip of my vodka. “They talk too much and laugh too loud when they’re trying to look important… or when they’re hiding something.”
Dima’s mouth curved into a humorless smile. “Then this is your kind of party, Sokolov.”
Shaking my head, I didn’t bother to smile back. My kind of party had nothing to do with crystal chandeliers and masquerade masks. My kind of party ended in silence and blood.
Konstantin elbowed me. “Oh, come on, it wouldn’t kill you to smile.”
My response was one arched brow. He chuckled, then returned to watching the people we spoke of.
