1. Victoria
1
VICTORIA
Five Years Later
Chaos erupts near the end of my shift at a ritzy diner on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. It’s coming from outside, and I instinctively know that my kid brother Mason is involved; call it intuition. Call it bone-fucking-weariness or reaching-the-end-of-my-tether, or how-much-more-of-his-shit-is-he-going-to-throw-at-me. Because even before Roy, our chef, comes striding in, his eyes seeking me out, I sense that this has nothing to do with the Irish bar down the street kicking some rowdy football fans out at closing time.
Ignoring the sounds of a crowd jeering a fight without even realizing they’re taking sides, I set some drinks down onto a table of four—two couples—with a smile plastered onto my face and tell them that the bar is now closed.
Stay focused and upbeat until the last customer has left the premises, even if you feel like shit on the inside. I can’t afford to lose another job. Mason sure as hell isn’t bringing any money into the two-bedroom apartment we share since he got kicked out of his last place.
I hurry back to the bar with the tray of empties from the table I just served, but Roy takes it from me before I reach it. “Go, Vicky,” he says, his dark eyes flashing at me from beneath bushy eyebrows. “Killian’s spitting blood for your brother.”
I knew it.
Killian owns the diner. He’s a burly ex-boxer with biceps the size of rugby balls, and a temper to match his fiery red hair. He’s almost sixty but still works out every day, and when he blows, everyone generally finds a quiet corner in which to cower. Including me.
But this is Mason, and despite all the hassle he causes me, I still feel responsible for him. Who else is going to look out for him if it isn’t me?
I see the crowd gathered around the fight taking place on the sidewalk. Shoving through, I reach the ringside as Killian raises his fist and pummels my brother’s face, blood spraying the front of my white shirt. I let out an involuntary shriek as Mason’s nose seems to split, red smothering his nose and chin making him resemble a vampire at feeding time.
“Killian, stop!” I reach for his arm, but he shrugs me off and bats me away like I’m a fly who got in the way.
A young guy in green pants and a bowtie catches me before I hit the ground and stands me back up. “Stay out of it, lady, or you’ll?—”
But I’m not listening. Mason is curled into the fetal position on the cold sidewalk, and it’s clear that no one else is going to intervene even though he isn’t fighting back, and I left my cell phone back inside my purse in the diner. If I don’t stop Killian, the cops will be scraping my brother off the ground later.
“Killian, stop!” I’m trying to find a way to reach Mason beneath those swinging arms, but it’s like completing an obstacle course of moving parts. “Someone, help him, please! He’s my brother!”
Some folks turn away at the pleading in my voice—if they don’t watch, they can tell themselves later that there was nothing they could do. Others stay behind but keep their distance, unwilling to get blood on their clothes.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I leap onto Killian’s back, throwing my arms around his neck, and trying to steer him away from my brother as though he were a horse. But Killian wraps his meaty hands around my arms and flings me sideways, a minor inconvenience preventing him from finishing what he has already started.
I grit my teeth and wait for my body to slam into the sidewalk, but instead, with an unexpected whump, I hit the solid chest and arms of a guy wearing black motorbike leathers.
He catches me easily, the force barely even knocking him off-balance. “Are you hurt?” He sets me down and holds me at arm’s length, scanning my face for blood.
I shake my head. His presence has halted the one-sided fight, and I realize that everyone is backing off now that the entertainment is over. Peering up into his face in the glow of the streetlamp, I understand why.
This is Caleb Murray. Owner of the Wraith, a sleek, black-mirrored, high-rise hotel in the city. Billionaire playboy rumored to have connections in all the right places, or wrong places depending on which way you’re looking at it. He has to be one of the most photographed people in the States, and he just saved me from at least a couple broken bones.
With a nod in my direction to acknowledge that I’m alright, he turns his attention to Killian. “Why the fuck would you settle your shit in the street? You want the one-fifteen on your back?”
“No, Mr. Murray.” Killian lowers his fists, muscles still twitching. I’ve never seen him look so sheepish or heard him speak with such utter deference to anyone before. “You’re right, of course, Mr. Murray.”
No, sir. Yes, sir. Three bags full, sir.
What the actual fuck?
I can’t help staring at the wide shoulders and narrow hips clad in leather and wonder if the guy’s cologne exudes some kind of pheromone that makes other men want to bow in front of him. Or maybe the rumors don’t do the man justice.
Either way, Killian is still groveling—I almost expect him to drop to his knees and beg Caleb Murray to go easy on him—and I wish I’d taken more notice of his chest because, well, a solid chest and black leather…
“I’m sorry but the dumb fuck’s been stealing from my place for weeks and I finally caught him red-handed.”
While I’ve been staring, Mason has managed to slink away, crawling under the radar and waiting for it all to go away. But the truth is, if Killian caught him stealing, I know exactly how this evening is going to pan out, and I’ll be the one who ends up paying for it.
I back away, silently, sticking to the shadows even though my senses are screaming at me to stay close to Caleb Murray because Killian won’t try anything while he’s around, but he isn’t going to help me sort Mason out. I don’t even know if I can sort out this mess, but I learned a long while ago that burying your head in the sand resolves nothing.
So, once I’m out of sight, I run.
I catch up with Mason at the subway entrance. Blood is still pouring from his nose, and his left eye is almost closed behind swollen purple flesh. I grab his arm, and he pulls away from me like he’s expecting me to be a middle-aged beefcake.
His shoulders slump when he realizes that it’s me.
“Mason, tell me Killian was lying.”
His good eye darts all around as if I might’ve brought my boss back with me for more of the same. “Go back to work, Vic. I can’t do this right now.”
It’s all the answer I need.
I watch him stumble down the stairs and get swallowed whole by the subway, shivering as the adrenaline leaves my body and the chill night air raises goosebumps on my arms.
I walk back to the diner on legs that have forgotten how to move. Mason might’ve gotten away with a broken nose and a black eye, but I still have to face Killian… Without the backup of Mr. Biking-leathers-Murray.
The crowd has dispersed outside the diner. I’m about to head inside when I hear the roar of a motorcycle from across the street. I turn around to find Caleb Murray fastening a helmet strap beneath his chin and pulling a black visor over his eyes, but not before he looks directly at me, his gaze holding mine a beat too long.
My heart freezes before slamming into my ribcage in its haste to catch up with the beats it missed, and pulse racing, I follow the matte-black Harley with my eyes until it disappears before heading inside to face the wrath of my boss’s bruised ego.
“Get that bitch out of here!” I can hear him from the front entrance where Roy has placed my belongings onto a cleared table to stop me from going any further.
“Sorry, kid.” Roy stands between me and Killian. “He’s been watching Mason for a while now. He’s been coming in on Specials’ nights, swiping tips off tables, and dipping his hand in the register when you’re not looking.” He lowers his voice. “You’re lucky he didn’t call the cops.”
Lucky? I can’t afford to lose this job.
“Can I just talk to him?”
Roy shakes his head. “You’re wasting your breath, kid.”
Of course, I am. I just jumped onto Killian’s back to stop him from killing my brother. A vision of my interview with Killian springs to mind, practically begging him to take me on because, without me, our little family would fall apart. I literally did everything but tell him we’d end up on the streets, so he’s never going to believe that I wasn’t tipping Mason off about the best nights to come in and swipe some cash.
Killian owes me two weeks’ money, but I don’t ask for it. I gather my stuff and walk outside with my head held high—no way the fucker is going to make me beg for my money. I’ll just have to find another job. Pronto.
When I get home, Mason is nursing his injuries on the sofa, head tipped backwards over the side, and a packet of frozen broccoli over his swollen eye.
On the subway, I had it all worked out. I was going to yell at him, vent my anger and frustration at losing another job because his itchy fingers and gambling debts follow me around like a lost puppy, but what’s the point? Besides, I’m done in.
Mason raises the packet of broccoli and peers at me with his one open eye. “I was going to pay you both back.”
He sounds defeated, and I should want to kill him to for dragging me into his problems again, but I just wish he would stay the fuck out of the casinos and do what’s right for all of us for once.
“Have you checked on Abigail?”
“No, he didn’t, but she’s fine.” Sienna walks out of the bedroom, glares at Mason, who is already checking out of the conversation. “What happened?”
“Long story.” I lower my voice; I don’t want to wake Abigail. Getting a cranky five-year-old back to sleep isn’t easy, and I’m not mentally prepared for another battle.
“You got fired, didn’t you?”
“I can still hear you,” Mason murmurs from beneath the slowly thawing packet on his face.
I usher Sienna into the kitchen and dump my purse on the counter. I don’t want her to worry about us, but I know that’s another battle I won’t win.
The burn scars on her neck and jawline are already turning livid, and she instinctively tugs the neckline of her sweater up to cover them. Sienna suffered third degree burns in a road traffic incident in the early hours of New Year’s Day five years ago. The driver, some guy she met in the same nightclub where I met Danny Zuko, climbed out of the wreckage and left her for dead; she only survived because I’d alerted the emergency services when I saw the missed calls on my cell phone.
Sienna’s version of events is that I saved her life, and I’m stuck with her. Which is why she’s here now, babysitting while I work, and Mason does whatever Mason does when he needs money to clear his debts.
My version is that I should never have left her in the nightclub that night to lose my virginity to Danny Zuko, the hottest man alive. The hottest man alive who must’ve been swallowed whole by a crack in the ground after I left him because I’ve never seen him again since.
I’ve looked. Believe me, I’ve looked.
That night changed everything, for both of us, and I’ll never stop trying to make it up to my best friend for as long as I live. Sienna wants to open her own art gallery, and one day, I’m going to make it happen. Even if I’m currently unemployed.
“What are you going to do, Vic?”
Sienna has offered to let me and Abigail, move in with her until we get straight, but I can’t leave Mason to fend for himself. What Killian did to him tonight would be nothing compared to the kind of mess my brother would get into if left to his own devices.
“I have a few favors I can call in.” I force a smile and fill the kettle to make coffee. “You look tired, Si. Stay over. We can make popcorn and watch a movie.” I hate that I only get to see my best friend when she’s looking after Abigail.
It’s about time both of us caught a break, and I tell myself to stay positive. Perhaps the Universe had that break in mind when it allowed Mason to mess with my job tonight and almost get himself killed.
“I can’t.” Sienna leans in and kisses my cheek. “Get some rest, Vic, and tell Mason that next time he fucks up your life, I’ll do more than bust up his eye.”
Sienna sees herself out. I don’t even drink my coffee when it’s made. By the time I’ve showered and warned Mason that he’s taking Abigail to kindergarten in the morning, I can barely keep my eyes open.
Next thing I know, my alarm is going off, and I’m asleep next to Abigail on top of my comforter with a damp towel still wrapped around my hair.
I kiss her forehead and smooth her hair, the same color as mine, away from her rosy face. It’s the third time this week I’ve come home from work and left again without seeing her awake, and it hurts my heart. But being unemployed will only make our lives a hundred times worse because whose bed would she be sleeping in then?
Thirty minutes later, I’m walking into the lobby of the Wraith, feeling seriously underdressed in black slacks and a white shirt. Interview outfit. Minus the ‘lucky’ prefix. I’m a hard worker, but even though there are almost nine million people in New York, Mason’s reputation clings to us both like Velcro.
My flat pumps click dully across the black marble floor. I’ve been here a couple times, and it still takes my breath away. Heavy chandeliers hang from the atrium ceiling reflecting a million tiny black stars across the floor and the glass facade, creating the kind of spectacular three-sixty image that wouldn’t look out of place in a Broadway show. Even the reception desk is sleek black with gold trimming, the woman sitting behind the desk dressed in an emerald and gold pantsuit.
I try tiptoeing, but it’s too late, the security guard has already spotted me and is heading my way.
“I’m here to see Denise Cartwright,” I blurt out before he can flash me a look that says I’m in the wrong place and I should turn myself around and march straight back outside where I belong.
“Vicky!”
Denise hurries over to me, taking control by encasing my hand in both of hers and leading me through a black archway that shimmers with gold and into the restaurant where she works as manager. Denise manages every food outlet connected to the Wraith and Caleb Murray’s ever-expanding empire.
She was also my mom’s best friend and her first NA sponsor when she was trying to get clean. It was Denise who introduced my mom to Quincy, her new husband, too. It won’t be the first time she has bailed me out of a situation created by Mason because she feels responsible for us, and I don’t like taking advantage of her, but needs must.
Inside the restaurant’s entrance, I breathe in the aroma of expensive coffee and chocolate and ignore my stomach growling back at me. Several tables are occupied by guests taking an early breakfast, and it would almost feel cozy if every item of gold-trimmed furniture didn’t cost more than I can earn in a year.
Deep breath. “Sorry, Denise, but I need a favor.”
Denise’s expression doesn’t alter. “Let me guess, Mason.”
Tears well in my eyes, and I blink them away furiously. “It’s an emergency. You know I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. I just need a gig to hold me over until I sort something long-term.”
Her mouth twists, and I already know what the answer is going to be.
“Please, Denise, I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”
“I don’t have any server positions at any of the Murray venues right now.” She furrows her brow. “I’m sifting through applications to fill the Exec Concierge position though. If you want to temp it, I can?—”
“I’ll take it.” Jeez, I hate sounding so desperate and try to hide it behind a smile.
“It’s a tough gig, Vic.”
“I don’t care. What do I have to do?”
Denise sighs loudly as if already regretting this. “Whatever Mr. Murray wants, you make sure he gets it. You’ll liaise with his personal assistant, Lauren. Call her Miss Ingram, please. She’s a power-hungry queen who likes to think that the Wraith is her ship, but she’s got her finger on every button, and when she tells Mr. Murray she doesn’t like something, it’s goodnight before you can blink.”
“Got it.” My pulse is racing, and it isn’t with gratitude that Denise has bailed me out. Again.
“You’ll be taking a big job off my hands while I run the restaurant.” Denise looks at me from beneath lowered brows like she hasn’t quite stressed how important this is.
I nod. “When do I start?”
“Meet me here at one-thirty. I can get you fitted with a uniform and show you around before the shift starts.”
One-thirty. I imprint the time on my brain as I thank Denise and step back out into the real world where smoke pours out of the drains and people don’t apologize for barging into you while they’re too busy talking on their phones to see what’s right in front of them.
Mr. Murray. I’m going to be working for Caleb Murray, albeit temporarily, and I can’t help remembering the touch of his hands on my arms when he stopped me from getting hurt outside the diner.