Page 1 of Broomsticks and Bloodstains
Chapter 1
Sofia
I should have known my friend Isabella was up to something the second she showed up at my apartment door in a black pencil skirt and her hair slicked back into that waitress bun of hers.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said before I even opened my mouth. “I’m desperate, Sofie. Half the staff is out with the flu, and if I show up without two extra bartenders, my boss is going to have my head. I promised him I could get this covered.”
With a sigh, I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Isabella, I already worked a double at O’Malley’s this week. I was planning on sleeping tonight.”
She gave me her best doe eyes and stuck out her full bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. Ugh, I hated those eyes—they’d gotten me into more trouble than the best Puerto Rican rum ever had. “Please. I swear, the tips tonight could pay half your rent. This isn’t beer-and-shot money, Sofe. This is Park Avenue masquerade ball money.”
That made me pause. Park Avenue money? Rent money? My checking account was currently in the negative, and Sallie Mae was already blowing up my email about student loans I had no chance in hell of paying. My dream of med school had evaporated two years ago, leaving me with nothing but debt and the nagging feeling I’d wasted the last decade of my damn life.
I huffed in defeat. “Tell me about this gig.”
Her smile widened, triumphant. “It’s at Igor Popov’s estate—the beachfront place. He’s throwing a masquerade ball, all high society, big money. Masks, costumes, the works. We’re talking twenty-million-dollar yacht money, chica. You work one night, and you’ll make more than you see in a week at O’Malley’s—I swear to you.”
“Popov,” I repeated, the name clicking into place. The Russian oligarch who owned half the luxury real estate in Manhattan. A man I’d only seen in news headlines and whispers about his… less legal ventures. “And you want me to just stroll in there with a shaker and a smile?”
“Exactly.” Isabella clasped her hands like she was praying to the saints. “Sofe, I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t drowning. Please. Just this once.”
I blew out a long breath. This had bad idea written all over it. I didn’t belong anywhere near the glittering elite of New York. I was a bartender who could balance six pint glasses in one go, not someone who served martinis to billionaires in masks. Born in Mayagüez, Puerto Rico, I was eight months old when my mom brought me to New York City after she and my dad split. My mom worked herself sick cleaning offices.
I wasn’t high class.
But Isabella was right. The rent was due. Again. And I was tired of playing catch-up with a life that was always two steps ahead of me—or it seemed like it anyway.
“I don’t have anything to wear for this,” I muttered as I walked into my kitchen and opened the fridge. My stomach bottomed out as I saw the sad state of the contents.
“I’ve got you covered. They want us in masks and these fancy glittery dresses,” Isabella waved her hand like it was no big deal. Then she flicked one of the rubber spiders I had swinging from my ceiling.
With a cocked brow, I glanced down at myself. I wasn’t exactly the skinny little thing that Isa was. “I’m not going to fit into your clothes,” I scoffed.
“You’re about the same size as Cora—one of the bartenders out sick. It’s perfect; you’ll be able to wear her dress.”
“Dress?” I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t a dress-type girl.
“Big tips…” she drawled the reminder as she waggled her brows. She picked up the jack-o-lantern from my counter and wiggled him as she dropped her voice comically. “Come on, Sofia, we need that money. Look at me; my teeth are falling out.”
Though I tried to hold it in, a snicker escaped me at her antics.
“Fine,” I muttered as I poured myself a glass of orange juice with a generous splash of rum. “But if I get fired for spilling champagne on a rich guy’s suit, you’re explaining it to him.”
Isabella squealed, clapping her hands. “Yay! Maybe I can get you on full-time with me after this!”
I choked on my drink. “Jesus, let’s not get carried away, Isa.”
The catering and events company Isabella worked for was elite. They served the richest of the rich. If I believed in Cinderella stories, perhaps that kind of job would appeal to me, but I didn’t.
“You won’t regret this!” she swore.
Oh, but I had a sinking feeling I would.
Chapter 2
Sofia
If the luxurious sequined cocktail dress I squeezed into wasn’t a big fat clue, the venue was. The second I stepped behind the marble bar, I knew I was in over my head.
