Chapter 1
LILY
This is exactly why I don't accept help from random people on the street—especially not in New York. I don't care if they're holding a map, offering a free slice of pizza, or claiming they can guess my rising sign without knowing my birthdate.
There's always a catch. Always.
Sure, they say you miss all the shots you don't take, but those shots? Half of them weren't even shots to begin with, and the other half came with a guy named Vic who "used to be in theater." And no, you don't want to know what I mean by Vic, or what "used to be in theater" actually translates to.
Look—I don't get the horror genre, and I love the horror genre. It's complicated.
Don't get me wrong, I am not Final Girl material. I'd be toast within the first five minutes. A charming serial killer from the '70s with a pearly white smile and commitment issues would have loved me. Left to my own devices, I could've died like thirty times—and that's just in the past week.
It's January 10th, by the way.
A strand of hair keeps falling in my face and I'm regretting wearing my kinky hair out today.
It's huge—middle-of-my-back huge—and it keeps escaping every clip I've jammed into my scalp, just to tinkle my nose while I read.
Meanwhile, the frame of my glasses keeps sliding down my face every time I turn a page.
My feet are tucked under me on the plush throne of a desk chair—courtesy of my best friend-slash-boss, Nadia Petrov—and I'm sinking back into its cloud-soft cushions, absolutely floored by how a book this good, this high-energy, even exists.
I mean, how did it all spiral from one moment of "so-called" luck?
Now, if a man in a pinstripe suit had walked up to me in 1923 and said, "Hey kid, I'll give you five hundred dollars to play guitar at my ritzy uptown party," would I have said yes?
Maybe. Probably.
That's a lot of money now—back then, it could buy you a car, a new identity, and a steak dinner that didn't come with food poisoning. I would've taken that money and run.
But this man? He said yes. He took the money. And he actually showed up to the stranger's house.
Now he's standing ankle-deep in blood in the middle of Jazz Age Harlem while a man in a silk robe chants in a language no one's spoken since the moon was still figuring out its orbit.
All for a gig. Play some guitar. Deliver a book.
Smile at the rich white man with the hollow eyes and too many mirrors in his hallway.
Easy money, right?
Wrong.
Now he's trapped in a nightmare—one with brick walls that whisper, doors that shouldn't open but do, and ancient things that don't just want to be worshipped, they want in. Like, inside-your-body, inside-your-mind kind of in.
Ever seen a man stare into a hole in the floor and start crying for his mom? That's the kind of Tuesday we're talking about.
This man is going to die. He is seconds away from being the back of a fucking milk carton. All for five hundred bucks. Which, okay, is about $9,500 today—but still. That is not enough to join a demon cult by accident.
"Lily!" A voice snaps, ripping my book from my hands and narrowing at the cover.
"The Ballad of Black Tom?" Nadia questions, turning the book over with a scowl. "When I left you out here three hours ago you were reading The Haunting of Hill House."
"Yeah read and absolutely loved it," I sing, sliding my feet from underneath me, and yanking the bottom drawer of my desk open.
"But you know I have a mini library of books underneath here, and besides," I stretch to yank the book out of her perfectly manicured claws.
"I have fifty pages left before this book is over, so if you will excuse me… "
"I'm sorry," she smirks, crossing her arms over her chest with a teasing smirk. "Am I interrupting you from doing your actual job?"
I lean over and glance at the to-do list on my desk—every item neatly crossed out, each with its own corresponding color.
The last task? Prepping the conference room for the meeting Nadia is currently having with Dante Romano and Jakub Nowak, who, as we speak, are sipping espressos inside that very room.
When I look back up, Nadia's standing there, smirking. Her long, pin-straight blonde hair is slicked back, and she's leaning casually against my desk, scowling at me when I tilt my head in confusion.
"My last task is done. I'm just waiting for your meeting to end so we can all go home," I say with a casual shrug, swiping my book out of her hands and flipping back to the page I left off on. "Now, if I were you, I'd wrap it up—some of us have a very important date with Love Island tonight."
The words are barely out of my mouth before I freeze.
Shit.
I said Love Island. Nadia's ex—he-who-should-not-be-named but is, unfortunately, a ridiculously hot assassin who lives in Japan—loved Love Island. And, of course, he's the one who introduced her to it in the first place. Like two years ago.
And I, the world's worst best friend, have just casually invoked the cursed show like it's no big deal.
"Nadi—" I whisper, lowering my book slowly into my lap. "I just meant—"
"You meant," she cuts in, voice cool and sharp, "that you'll be staying here until negotiations are over."
Her eyes narrow.
I nod. A little too fast. "Of course, Boss."
I slap on a smile that I hope reads endearing and not please-don't-murder-me. Because while Nadia would never actually hurt me—probably—rumor has it she's done far worse. And I'm not talking about manslaughter or self-defense.
No, when Nikolai was head of the Bratva, she was the one they sent in to make sure the room was cleared. And if anyone survived? Well, they were usually too traumatized to say a single word about it.
Now that she is head of the Bratva, well, not many live to announce their disappointment with a woman being in charge.
My voice slips into that sickly sweet, high-pitched tone we used when we were kids—the kind that meant trouble was either already happening or about to. "Anything else I can help you with?"
Right on cue, a glass shatters.
A thick Polish accent booms through the office, sharp and furious, followed by an equally livid Italian voice shouting either "you motherfucker" or "I will fuck your mother." Hard to tell. I haven't taken Italian in two years.
"I take it negotiations are going splendidly," I mutter, flinching just as Nikolai casually dodges a flying elbow from the Polish guy.
Nadia lets out a sharp, exhausted sigh. I turn to look at her just as she presses two fingers to her temple, watching the scene unfold through the glass conference room wall with the sort of detached annoyance most people reserve for printer errors or traffic delays, not two guys trying to kill each other with their bare hands.
"Chinese food from Jade's, please," she says, voice tight. "And make sure you get Jakub his egg rolls. He's a pain in the ass without them."
I set my book down on my desk and stand, reaching for the worn puffer jacket hanging off the back of my chair. "Let me guess—beef lo mein for you and orange chicken for Nik?"
"Yup, and some pork fried rice for the rest of the fucking animals," she grumbles, already halfway to the conference room door before pausing. "Lily, make sure you take your time."
My eyes flick to the barely-contained chaos behind the glass—Jakub has a chair in one hand, and Dante is either ducking or dancing—and I nod knowingly.
"I'll let Ming know there's no rush."
"Take your time" is code. It usually means whatever's going on is too violent, too messy, or too confidential for me to be anywhere nearby. It's the only protection the Petrov siblings have given me in case anything goes sideways, plausible deniability.
I know just enough, but not enough to be indicted.
Not that I'm clueless about the family business—I was born into this life. My father was the right-hand man to Nadia, Aleksander and Nikolai's father, worked for the Petrov family until the day he died. After that, they took me in. Raised me like one of their own.
I owe everything to the Petrov family. My loyalty. My life. My full understanding of how to order Chinese food under pressure, and make that shit last long enough so that they don't have to worry about me when their entire worlds are crumbling around them.
I slide on my fluffy, yellow, waterproof, knee-high Hunter boots—the storm-proof kind that make me feel like a ray of sunshine marching through the gloom of the city. My purple puffer jacket with mini daisies all over is zipped. Book open. Chapter almost done.
I head toward the elevator, flipping to the last two pages.
I glance up. Despite us being on the 80th floor, the elevator is still down in the lobby. Perfect. More than enough time to squeeze in one more page before I brave the January freeze of New York City.
Hands down, it's the most beautiful time of year—icy skyline, gray light bouncing off glass buildings, everyone bundled like modern-day marshmallow soldiers—but I freeze my ass off every single day. Without fail.
I tilt the book slightly toward the elevator lights. I'm in the middle of that scene—spoiler—where Tom is standing alone in that eerie, velvet-draped room, and he realizes, all too late, that the thing watching him isn't just a man. Not anymore. Not after what he's seen. Not after what he's become.
The elevator dings.
I wait the obligatory five seconds for the doors to glide open—because apparently I'm polite like that—before stepping inside and walking smack into something solid and unexpectedly warm.
I stumble slightly, my book slipping from my fingers, and come face-first into what can only be described as a brick wall wrapped in expensive wool and cologne.
Strong hands catch me by the waist before I can do something truly humiliating, like slide down his chest and apologize to his shoes.