Chapter 8
Sofia
Morning light spilled through the blinds like an interrogation lamp.
I groaned and pulled the blanket over my head, though it did little to block out the city’s noise or the pounding in my skull.
Not a hangover—God, I hadn’t even had a sip last night.
No, this was worse. This was adrenaline wearing off, leaving nothing but raw nerves and shaky limbs.
I hadn’t slept much. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that hallway, tray trembling in my hands, his voice curling against my ear.
What’s your name? What’s your name? What’s your name?
“Ugh,” I huffed as I rolled over and stared at the small stack of envelopes on my nightstand—rent due, utilities, another notice from the loan servicer reminding me that my future was already collateral.
With a sigh, I sat up and reached for my purse, still slumped against the chair where I’d dropped it.
The tips had nearly burst the seams of the envelope Esteban had handed me.
Tearing open the flap, I spilled them onto my bed, crisp bills scattering like fallen leaves. Blinking hard, I stared at the pile. I counted twice just to be sure, then a third time because it didn’t feel real.
Seven hundred and eighty-four dollars. For one night. Holy shit.
Honestly, for some reason, I thought they were mostly ones.
It was what I was used to. I laughed, sharp and humorless, and pressed my palms against my eyes.
Seven hundred bucks wouldn’t save me, not with the kind of debt I was drowning in.
But it would give me air. A week or two without choosing between groceries and the electric bill.
Isabella had texted already. How she was up so early after a night like that, I had no clue.
Isabella: Told you it would be worth it. You in for Christmas or New Year’s if we get the call?
I typed back: Count me in. Then deleted it. Maybe. Then stared at the little blue bubble I’d sent until the screen went black.
Because money like that was dangerous. It made you think you could fix your whole life if you just kept saying yes.
But I knew better.
Last night hadn’t just been cocktails and masks and rich assholes in tuxedos.
I’d seen something I shouldn’t have. Heard words that made my stomach twist. I didn’t belong anywhere near men like Igor Popov or Boris Volkov—or the man in the black mask whose gorgeous eyes had cut through me like a blade.
I told myself it was just another job. Just one night. One paycheck.
But even as I tried to convince myself, I couldn’t shake the certainty that I hadn’t walked out of that house alone. That somewhere in the dark, someone had been watching.
With a shake of my head, I shoved the money back into my purse and turned to the stack of mail I’d dropped on my counter last night. Most of it was junk—credit card offers I’d never qualify for, ads for furniture I couldn’t afford. The rest was worse.
Final Notice.
Payment Overdue.
Immediate Attention Required.
The words bled together until they felt heavier than the bills themselves. I dropped them back on the counter and pressed my palms into the laminate, staring at the chipped edge like it could magically give me answers.
Unfortunately, I’d had to use my credit cards to pay my bills several times over the last few years.
It had been bad when Mom had gotten hurt and wasn’t able to work.
Then I’d paid for my mom’s move back to Puerto Rico when my grandfather died.
We’d both tried to get my grandma to move here, but she wasn’t having it.
My shoulders curled inward. Yeah, I was twenty-seven years old, but I missed my mom.
My phone vibrated and I glanced at it.
Isabella: Little pig, little pig, let me come in! I’m outside.
A laugh burst from me, making me snort. In my slipper socks, I padded to the door and down the stairs. Then I let her in, shivering as the cold blew in with my friend.
“Damn, it’s cold this morning!” she announced as she shuddered.
“Shh!” I told her as I glanced at the two doors to the downstairs apartments.
She waved her hand dismissively. “Pssh! It’s ten in the morning—it’s not like it’s the ass-crack of dawn, Sofe.”
I rolled my eyes as I climbed the stairs to my apartment, with her on my heels. My downstairs neighbor was a dick. He was always complaining that I walked too heavy, or that my music was too loud. I knew it was bullshit because a few of the nights he cited to our landlord, I was at work. Asshole.
Thankfully, my landlord liked me.
Sort of.
Inside my living room, I picked up the dress I’d dropped over the back of my sheet-covered couch. I handed it to her, and she shoved it in her tote to return to the catering company. I’d offered to get it laundered, but Esteban had assured me that the company had a deal with a dry cleaner.
“So?” Isabella asked as I shuffled the six steps into my kitchenette.
“So, what?” I asked as I pulled two mugs from the cupboard. I plugged in the old-fashioned coffee pot and, by muscle memory, went through the motions of making a pot of coffee.
As it brewed, I gathered the necessary ingredients to doctor my morning brew. I checked the date on the cream as I shook it to make sure there was enough for two cups.
“You know what,” she huffed as she tossed her jacket on the couch and took a seat on one of my mismatched stools. She scooted it up to the narrow, thrifted island that doubled as a table and rested her elbows on it.
Her usually straightened black hair was in a curly pile on her head, and her turtleneck sweater hugged her slender body like a glove. Growing up, I’d been jealous of her model-like figure. I’d been what my high school boyfriend had termed “Rubenesque.”
Years of hoofing it everywhere I could and practically starving myself in order to pay bills had slimmed me down, but I’d never look like Isabella. The difference between now and then is that I’ve come to love my curves.
“I told you… maybe,” I replied as the coffeemaker sputtered to an end. I filled the cups three-quarters of the way, then added the cream, chocolate, caramel, and a sprinkle of sugar.
“Yeah, and I’ve known you for twenty-two years.
‘Maybe’ means no with you,” Isabella said with a laugh.
“Girl, I don’t understand you—this is your chance to maybe get on with me full-time.
You got your foot in the door. The pay isn’t great, but the tips from the caliber of clientele we have more than make up for it.
Besides, Esteban seems to really like you,” she crooned as she rested her chin in her hand and grinned mischievously.
With a sigh, I set one of the mugs in front of her. “I get it, Isa, but at what cost?”
“What do you mean?”
“Those kinds of people… they look down their noses at people like us. They have more money than brains. And where that money comes from… some of them are dangerous people.” I shrugged as I took a small sip of my coffee to test the temp.
“Who cares?” Exasperation bled through her words. “As long as they keep throwing that money our way, I’ll play the game. Just think about it. At least for the holiday parties. You have to admit, that extra money at the holidays—”
“Ugh! I know! And that’s the problem. I do need the money.” I leaned forward and rested my forehead on the wood. Then I lifted it up and stared at her.
“Just think about it. It could help you out. I just hate seeing you struggle,” she softly murmured.
It was times like this that I wished Isabella didn’t live with her boyfriend. Then it made me feel shitty for thinking that because I didn’t want her unhappy and Weston definitely made her happy.
“I’ll think about it,” I finally conceded, then changed the subject.
We visited for a little bit before she got up and slipped her jacket back on. “All right, chica. I gotta get these dresses dropped off.”
We hugged and she left. Staying in my PJs, I spent the day cleaning my apartment, then showered.
After doing my makeup, I put my hair up in a clip and dressed in a pair of worn but comfy jeans and a tank top.
Before I walked out of my minuscule bedroom, I snatched my favorite flannel and shoved my arms in the sleeves.
Then I glanced at the time and hurried out to put my shoes on. I’d taken too much time with my damn makeup, but if I wanted decent tips at all, I needed to play the part. I paused at the stack of dreaded envelopes. My shoulders drooped.
Sometimes, I hated this life. Working two jobs just to keep my head above water, scraping by while my dreams rotted in a pile of debt collectors’ letters.
Except now—now I had money in my purse that could cover almost a month’s worth of bills if I stretched it right.
A night or two each month would give me much-needed breathing room.
But at what cost?
It doesn’t matter. I can ignore things that aren’t my business.
It’s just a job.
Whatever the people that I serve do isn’t my business.
I pushed away from the counter, grabbed my keys, and forced myself into motion. Sitting still only made the stupid, tempting voices louder.
The late afternoon air was chilly and smelled like rain as I stepped onto the street. My favorite sneakers slapped against the pavement, the noise too damn loud in my ears. I blended into the stream of people rushing to trains, buses, shops, and lives that didn’t seem like mine.
By the time I reached O’Malley’s, with the familiar neon sign flickering in the window, the knots in my shoulders had loosened a little.
Though it wasn’t what I had hoped and dreamed for my life, this was my world.
Sticky floors. Cheap beer. Music that barely covered the sound of the balls clacking on the old pool table in the back.
I knew every face here, every regular and every drunk who’d tried to slip me a phone number scrawled on a dirty napkin.
Predictable.
Safe.
Or at least safer than last night.
I shoved through the door, tossing a wave at one of the cooks through the order window, and ducked behind the bar. Brody lifted his chin in greeting before returning to his conversation with a pretty, dark-haired girl. The way he was leaning in and she was smiling, she might become a regular.
Turning, I hid my grin. Brody hadn’t so much as shown interest in anyone in ages, let alone dated. Secretly, I had wanted to hook him up with Isabella when I first started. Except she’d met Weston and the rest was history.
“Hey, Benito,” I greeted the old guy at the end of the bar with the snow-white beard.
“Hello, hija,” he replied with a toothless grin. “?Tan Bella como siempre o mejor. Cuando nos casamos?”
“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.