Day Shift (Broken Heroes #2)

1. ANASTASIA

Chapter one

D ropping the last of the day’s paperwork on my desk, I slumped down in my chair with an exasperated huff. The late afternoon doldrums had set in, and I couldn’t help but glance at the clock every other minute. Only fifteen more and I could escape this stifling cage of books and whispered conversations for a couple of days off—the weekend promised freedom.

“Anastasia,” my elderly colleague, Marjorie, called out in her perpetually soft voice. “Could you reshelve these returns before you leave?”

“Of course. Happy to help,” I said with a tight smile. My heart sank as I eyed the teetering stack of books on the cart she ever so slowly pushed in front of my door. Marjorie was an older woman who had taken me under her wing when I’d first started working at the library. How could I tell her no ?

Here at the Roosevelt Library, I spent my days drowning in historical and political documents. I was the keeper of countless volumes, each one a testament to past power struggles and societal shifts. For the last six years of my life, I had protected these documents and ensured they remained in good condition so they could enlighten future generations with their tales of political intrigue and historical milestones.

Situated in Columbus Hall on the Eveningside Heights campus of Kennedy University in New York City, this library served as a veritable gold mine for those with a penchant for political science and the city’s history, attracting the university’s students, faculty, and researchers traveling in from other universities to consult the more unique materials. Right after graduation, the job had practically fallen into my lap, and I hadn’t been able to say no. I had to maintain the pretense of being a well-bred, well-educated, well-behaved young woman of society to keep the family happy, and this job served its purpose well. Working at this prestigious university bolstered my résumé in a world where appearances were everything—a necessary evil.

The sooner I finished with my work here, the sooner I could head home and slip into my true self—the one that thrived in the darkness, unburdened by the expectations of family and society.

Methodically, I sorted through the returns, organizing them by call number, and positioned them on the cart, standing on their edges with the spines visible. My mind wandered to the club. It was where my heart was, where I longed to be. The anticipation of spending my weekends running it kept me sane during the long, monotonous hours I spent in the library stacks.

An hour and a half later, as I was finally squaring everything away, Mr. Henley, my boss, came down the aisle and cleared his throat behind me. I was stooped over, digging through the bottom drawer of an ancient-looking filing cabinet, so I slammed it shut and jerked to a standing position.

“Anastasia, locking up soon?” he asked, peeking over his glasses at me.

“Yes, just wrapping up,” I said, pulling open the top drawer and slipping the last file into place. My movements were precise, practiced—exhibiting the responsible employee facade I had perfected.

“I’m sure you’re aware it’s more than an hour past closing,” he said with a frown. “You need to head on out. Remember, the university frowns on paying staff overtime.” With that, he continued moving down the aisle.

“Trust me, I’m more than ready to be out of here,” I mumbled, heading toward my small office, where I quickly shut off my computer and gathered my things.

Crossing the library, I headed toward the exit on the north side, which was the quickest route to the 116th Street subway station. I hoped the train would be a little less crowded since it was after seven o’clock.

The moment I stepped outside, New York City’s cacophony of sounds enveloped me. Horns blared and people shouted, mingling with the distant wail of a siren. The scent of hot kebabs wafted through the air, momentarily overpowering the familiar odor of diesel exhaust from a nearby food truck.

“Hey, watch it!” a man barked as he bumped into me, nearly knocking me off-balance.

“You watch it,” I muttered, not bothering to glance at him.

The subway station came into view. The green light at the top of the subway steps blinked on, as a streetlight illuminated a nearby navy-blue sign displaying the university’s name in crisp white Helvetica. Hurriedly, I descended the steps, the ground beneath my feet rumbling with the approach of a train. I swiped my phone across the sensor and pushed through the turnstile, joining the throng of commuters on the platform.

“Stand clear of the closing doors,” a disembodied voice announced as I squeezed into the crowded car. “Downtown 1 to South Ferry, next stop one-ten,” the conductor shouted over the muffled PA system. Around me, the other passengers stared blankly or tapped away at their phones. Beads of sweat formed across my forehead from the stifling heat.

Soon, the train was jostling along, the sharp screech of metal-on-metal blaring through the car. The overhead fluorescents threw a harsh light on the sea of blank faces around me. I held onto the overhead handrail, leaning against the cool glass of the train doors, my eyes stuck on my reflection—a ghostly image against the fast-moving dark tunnels outside. The rhythmic clatter of wheels became a monotonous rumble, and time seemed to stretch on as I stood there gazing at the window. The dull chatter of passengers blended with the noise of the train, creating an urban soundtrack that was both familiar and soothing.

As the train took us farther into Manhattan’s core, stopping and starting to let passengers on and off, my thoughts drifted to the night ahead at my favorite place on Earth. I barely registered the stops before my own, mentally going over the millions of things that needed to be done once I got to the club. The flickering lights outside the window seemed to dance with my wandering thoughts. I anticipated the influential clients I would greet, the music that would fill the air, and the edgy familiarity of the club.

“Next stop, 18th Street,” the voice called out, barely audible above the noise of the train. I was past ready for the pulsating beats of Club Xyst, the taste of a strong cocktail on my lips, and—most importantly—the freedom to be my true self, even if just for a few stolen hours .

“Eighteenth Street,” the voice announced, snapping me out of my thoughts. The train screeched to a stop, its doors sliding open with a whoosh. I stepped out onto the platform and took a deep breath, the humid summer air smelling like a stinky sauna.

The moment I stepped off the stairs and onto the sidewalk, the familiar sights and sounds of my neighborhood embraced me. Brownstone buildings lined quiet side streets, their stoic facades softened by stoops adorned with potted plants and colorful window boxes. Laughter and music spilled from open windows.

“Hey, Anastasia!” called Mrs. O’Malley from her perch on a nearby stoop. She waved at me and gave me a warm smile. The elderly woman was always there, reading the Times and watching over the neighborhood like a guardian angel.

“Hi, Mrs. O’Malley,” I replied, returning her wave as I passed. Home awaited me just a few doors down, its red-brick exterior and wrought-iron railings welcoming me back after a long day at work.

Six steps up, I keyed in my code, then shoved open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside the vestibule separating it from my front door.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind me, I breathed in the welcoming scents of home—waxed wood and a hint of lavender. This was a haven funded by my real father’s dubious generosity, a fact I tolerated for the independence it afforded me.

I was quick to kick off my sensible shoes and shrug out of my cardigan, sighing as a cool stream of air washed over my skin. I was eager to leave behind the good little librarian and mafia daughter personas for the night.

By day, I was Anastasia Genovese, a librarian with an impeccable pedigree, trapped in a life mapped out by my family. By night, I was someone else entirely, a woman who commanded the shadows of Club Xyst with confidence and gusto .

Growing up, I had been known as Anastasia Volkov, the daughter of Viktor and Valentina Volkov. My father, a man of formidable stature and chilling brutality, was a powerful Russian businessman. Despite our shared blood, he was as much a mystery to me as the underground operations he ran. The one thing I was familiar with was his callous reputation. He was not a man to be trifled with.

My mother was beautiful yet distant, more an aloof figure than a source of maternal warmth. I struggled to remember any heartfelt exchanges or tender moments I’d ever shared with her. It was as if her capacity to connect on an emotional level was reserved for a part of her life I was not privy to. The only blood relative I had any connection to was my twin brother, Nikolai, who, unlike me, was deeply entrenched in our family’s business affairs back in Russia.

My parents had ambitions that soared higher than any skyscraper in Manhattan. Their eyes were set on forming an alliance with one of the most influential American mob families—the Genoveses. The key to this ambitious plan lay with my Aunt Elena, my mother’s sister, who had married into the Genovese family. She had hoped to bear an heir to maintain the line of succession since her husband’s older brother’s injuries prevented him from doing so. Aunt Elena had tried everything to have a baby, but not even IVF had worked for her and Uncle Luca. That’s how I got dragged into this.

At twelve years old—when most girls were worrying about getting good grades and impressing their crushes—I’d been plucked from Russia to become merely a chess piece in their political games. Elena had taken me under her wing as my legal guardian and rebranded me as Anastasia Genovese—an American girl with an innocent smile and a last name that bore no trace of my Russian lineage .

I’d left behind one of Moscow’s cold, utilitarian public schools to be enrolled in one of the most elite boarding schools in America, the Austen Elmhurst Preparatory Academy for Girls in Upstate New York. It was a place where affluent families sent their daughters off to learn etiquette and social graces alongside algebra and English literature.

After being sent away to boarding school, any semblance of closeness with my mother had evaporated. Our interactions had become sporadic, each conversation feeling more like a formal assessment of my performance rather than a chat between mother and daughter.

Yet despite this new identity and the many miles separating me from Russia, I’d never been able to fully shake off my ties to the Volkovs. My knowledge of my family’s illicit dealings was vague and shadowy. For many years, I’d known my father was a powerful businessman, but had no idea he was part of the mafia. That, I had learned more about well after I’d finished college when my aunt had laid out what it meant for my future.

But for now, I just wanted to be like any other American girl. My dreams were big, and I wanted to live life on my own terms. I wanted to be more than just a pawn on the chessboard of mafia politics, more than just Viktor Volkov’s daughter or the Morettis’ future daughter-in-law. Dammit, I wanted control over my life!

The thought of marrying Frankie Moretti, a man from deep Brooklyn whose personality was as dry and tedious as the financial ledgers he so meticulously managed, loomed over me like an impending life sentence. His role as CFO for the Moretti family had him accounting for the dark money flowing into their coffers, which was buried deep within offshore accounts in the Caymans. To me, spending time with him was about as exciting as watching paint dry .

Elena and my parents had secured an arranged marriage between me and the pretentiously named Francis Aloysius Moretti. It was all an element of their strategy to unite two of the most powerful American mob families in New York.

I dragged my tired feet down the hallway and into the kitchen, tossing my cardigan onto a table between the kitchen and the living room. My stomach grumbled, reminding me I’d skipped lunch in favor of work. Craving something warm and comforting, I pulled out my phone and ordered delivery from my favorite little Italian place just around the corner. A steaming bowl of spaghetti carbonara would hit the spot.

While I waited for my food, I thumbed through the day’s mail. Among the usual bills and junk, a thick Bridal Guide magazine caught my eye, an unsolicited reminder of the future I was dreading. My fingers clenched around its glossy cover as my skin prickled with irritation. With an indignant huff, I flung it onto the kitchen counter. Just because I was entering into an arranged marriage, it didn’t mean I had any interest in planning a wedding.

Sure, I’d resigned myself to marrying Frankie, but I was not about to embrace it with open arms. The thought of planning a wedding, of picking out floral arrangements and choosing color schemes, felt like a mockery of my freedom. It was as if they were asking me to plan my own funeral instead.

I despised this patriarchal tradition my family held dear—this system that treated women like commodities rather than human beings. It wasn’t just about not being able to choose the man I would marry; it was about losing control over my life. My future husband had been carefully selected for me based on alliances and power struggles, not love or compatibility.

The whole thing left an acidic taste in my mouth—much like swallowing vomit. The notion that, in this modern age, where women were CEOs and world leaders, I was being bartered off like some medieval maiden for political gain was sickening.

My resentment toward this impending union ran far deeper than mere personal aversion to my fiancé. The arrangement symbolized everything wrong with our family and its dynamics—the criminality we perpetuated and the lives we ruined under the guise of preserving our lineage and power.

I longed for freedom from these invisible chains—freedom from being dictated to by men who saw me as nothing more than a tool in their quest for power. But for now, playing along seemed to be my only means of survival. My mother had made it clear that, if I wanted to remain breathing, I would marry Frankie and give them no trouble about it.

I opened my phone and scrolled through my planner, forming a mental checklist of everything I needed to do at the club tonight. As the business manager, I had several tasks to complete: reviewing the night’s VIP guest list, checking inventory levels, ensuring proper staffing, and confirming security protocols. The last thing we needed was unwanted attention from the police or the IRS.

Although there was a lot for me to get done, tonight also held the promise of pleasure. I hoped Lucian would be interested in more than just working. Our no-strings-attached arrangement allowed us to let off steam in the most delightful ways and was exactly the kind of release I needed after the week I’d had.

There was just enough time before my food arrived for me to take a quick shower. Setting my phone on the counter, I headed upstairs to my bedroom. Here in the privacy of my apartment, I could drop this whole Goody Two-shoes act and relax. This was my sanctuary, a place where I allowed myself to indulge in all the creature comforts I usually avoided. Every piece in this room felt like a well-deserved splurge, making it my little world of comfort.

I began to shed the day’s pretense, quickly unbuttoning my blouse. The garment slipped from my shoulders and fluttered to my feet. I shimmied out of my skirt and panties, letting them drop to the growing pile on the floor.

With a sigh, I stepped into the shower, where the warm water washed away any remaining traces of my day job. Steam filled the bathroom, blurring the edges of reality as the water drummed against my skin. A little shot of adrenaline coursed through me at the thought of who might show up at the club tonight. We often hosted actors, artists, and political elites who enjoyed a night out in an exclusive venue where cameras couldn’t follow.

Lucian would be there tonight too, which usually meant the night would be more entertaining. His smoky gaze had a way of sending fire through my veins, and his touch never failed to deliver exactly what I needed.

Club Xyst wasn’t just a business venture for me; it was an act of rebellion. It was my declaration of independence wrapped up in velvet ropes and champagne-soaked celebrations. Every night spent within its walls felt like stolen time—hours snatched away from sleep and gifted to pleasure instead.

And I loved every moment of it—from managing its operations to mingling with patrons who knew nothing about the club owner’s double life. The thrill that surged through me as I observed deals being sealed behind closed doors matched no other high.

Sleep deprivation? That didn’t bother me one bit. Compared to living a life shackled to a suffocating heritage, it was no contest. As long as I had Xyst, I had a taste of autonomy, and that was worth every minute of lost sleep .

I wrapped a towel around my damp hair and slipped into a silky robe, reveling in its softness as it slid over my skin. The intercom buzzed, announcing the arrival of my dinner. Eager to see my favorite delivery boy, I buzzed him in and hurried to the vestibule. With a wide grin, I swung the inner door open.

“Hey, Elliot,” I greeted him, a bit breathless. “You’re right on time, as always.”

“Uh, hi, Ms. Genovese… Anastasia,” he stammered, his cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of red. He held out the bag of food, his hands shaking ever so slightly. His father owned the Italian restaurant I often ordered from. It had immediately become one of my favorite places as soon as I’d moved here after graduation. I could remember when Elliot was just a thirteen-year-old boy in braces with a goofy haircut. He was currently home from college for the summer. Even after all this time, he was still a sweet guy. And although he had grown up a bit, he still got bashful around me.

“Please, call me Ana,” I purred, tilting my head and giving him a cheeky little side-glance. “Everyone else does. So how’s school going?”

“Okay…Ana,” he managed to choke out, still blushing furiously. “School’s good. I got all A’s second semester.” He shrugged, but the note of pride in his voice was obvious. “Here’s your order: spaghetti carbonara and garlic bread. I added some tiramisu for dessert—on the house.” His eyes roamed from my bare toes up to my eyes as he handed me the bag.

“Perfect, and thank you for the sweet treat,” I said, taking it from him and letting my fingers linger on his for a moment longer than necessary. “How much do I owe you?”

“Um, it’s twenty-seven fifty,” he replied, his eyes darting around nervously .

“Here you go,” I said, handing him two twenties. “Keep the change. And good job on those grades. I’m sure your parents were happy with that.”

“Th-thank you, Ana,” he stuttered, clearly flustered by our interaction. It was amusing how nervous he always was when he brought a delivery. I loved knowing I had that effect on him. It gave my ego the boost it needed.

“Anytime, Elliot. You always know how to make a girl happy on a Friday night.” I winked at him before closing the door, leaving him standing in the hallway as my robe swished behind me.

Chuckling, I carried my dinner to the kitchen and poured myself a generous glass of red wine. The rich aroma wafted up, promising a bold flavor to accompany my meal. I took a sip, savoring the taste as it washed over my tongue.

I sat down to eat and wasted no time digging in. Twirling the pasta around my fork, I took a large bite, enjoying the salty tang of the pork within.

The bridal magazine caught my eye, and the irritation from earlier returned. I hated that I only had a little over a month of freedom left. For tonight, however, I would push those thoughts aside and lose myself in the intoxicating atmosphere of the club. And if Lucian was in the mood for a little private rendezvous, well…that would be the cherry on top.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” I whispered to myself, finishing my meal, feeling all full and warm inside. I glanced at the clock and realized I was running late. So I threw away the takeout container, shoved the tiramisu in the refrigerator, and dashed upstairs.

In my bedroom, I stood in front of my full-length mirror, pulled the towel off my hair, and let my robe fall to the floor. My dark hair cascaded down my back, still damp from the shower. During the daytime, I had to be the obedient daughter, hiding who I really was beneath layers of restraint. But now that the sun had set and the moon had taken its place, it was my time to shine.

Turning to the mirror over my dresser, I blow-dried my hair and used a curling iron to tame the waves. Then, I began applying my makeup: a smoky eyeshadow and some dramatic eyeliner. I brushed on a deep-red lipstick, which matched my burgeoning confidence. With each stroke that transformed my face, I became more powerful—more like the fierce woman I was known as at Xyst.

Next, I turned my attention to what I would wear. I pulled a slinky black dress from a hanger, the fabric shimmering enticingly in the dim light. The plunging neckline showcased my very average cleavage, making it appear fuller than it was, while the hem stopped just below my butt, leaving little to the imagination. As I slipped into the dress, the silky material caressed my skin and hugged my curves. I wriggled my feet into a pair of sky-high stiletto heels that made my legs look endless and gave me an air of self-assurance.

With one last glance at the mirror, I grabbed my purse and headed downstairs.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, I pulled out my phone and ordered an Uber. While I waited for my ride, my mind drifted to Lucian again. Shivers went down my spine as I thought of how his strong hands always gripped my hips while his deep, breathy moans filled my ears. I found myself growing impatient for this night to begin. I had to relish my independence and live life to the fullest while I still had the chance.

A few minutes later, the Uber pulled up to the curb in front of my steps. I flew out of the apartment and slid into the backseat, mentally preparing myself for the frenzied pace of the club .

Xyst was my one indulgence, a slap in the face to the future laid out for me. It was where I traded whispers with the city’s elite, where I was more than just a tactic in my family’s strategy. My role at the club, the thrill of the gamble, the dance of seduction—it was me at my most alive. And tonight, like most nights, I was embracing that defiance. It was the only piece of my life that was truly mine, and I’d fight tooth and nail to keep it that way.

I was a boss lady at Xyst, ruling over a domain of nocturnal secrets. And for a few precious hours, I’d forget about the chains waiting to drag me back into my daytime reality.