Chapter 2
LILY
About forty-five minutes later, I'm done with The Ballad of Black Tom, and Miss Ming is handing me three large bags of takeout, standing in her worn house slippers with absolute exhaustion stamped across her face.
Her hair is up in a lopsided bun held together with a pen, and her pajama pants are printed with tiny dumplings that seem far too cheerful for the mood she's in.
"Again, Miss Ming," I say with a grin, grabbing the last bag and balancing the other two along my forearms like a half-functional circus act. "The Petrov family thanks you for your continued loyalty."
"Tell Miss Petrov I want double this time, Lily," she grumbles, wiping sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her faded floral pajama top. "And not a cent less!"
"You got it," I say through a strained smile, pushing the door open with my hip, bags wobbling precariously on my arms as I step into the crisp, unforgiving cold of a New York winter night.
It's just after ten. Midtown isn't dead, but it's doing a halfway decent impression. A couple of taxis slither past, headlights dragging long, distorted shadows across the slush-slicked pavement.
A cyclist—bundled in so many layers he looks like a sentient pile of laundry—wobbles as he nearly skids into traffic, lets out a creative string of curses, then pedals on like nothing happened.
The neon Taco Bell signs buzzes and flickers overhead, casting a weird pink halo across the sidewalk—a kind of intimacy only a city like New York can pull off in winter.
The people that remain on the streets are brisk and bundled, walking with purpose until one of them hits a patch of black ice and flails like a windmill in denial.
My breath fogs the air in soft, slow puffs. And for a fleeting second—just one—I let myself feel it. This hour. This stillness. This rare, quiet breath in the lungs of a city that never really shuts up.
Then I remember—last week marked my tenth Christmas without my father, curled up with my mother's old wedding planning binders, pages and pages of color palettes, fabric swatches and pictures of the most beautiful places in the city.
Winter, ironically, has become my favorite time of year because it was the last season I saw him alive.
If he were still here, I'd be complaining that the Christmas tree was still up, and he'd tell me not to let the holiday spirit escape so quickly.
Then he'd pinch my cheeks until they went red, flashing that wide, crooked grin—the one that always showed he was missing a couple molars in the back.
His eyes would crinkle like tissue paper, and just before I could swat his hands away, he'd boop my nose and whisper, "It's only a matter of time before the magic leaves, kiddo.
So you better hold onto it while you can. "
And coming from him—the broad-shouldered, overprotective, "I'll bury a man for you" kind of dad—that magic meant something.
If I didn't have my arms full of dumplings and lo mein, and a conference room full of mafia men mid-meltdown waiting on their egg rolls, I'd head straight to the Brooklyn Bridge. That was my mother's place, and once I got old enough it became my father's and my place.
A steel cathedral stretched across the East River, with a view that always made the city look softer—like it was exhaling too.
I used to tell him I wanted to climb to the very top, Spider-Man style, and watch the lights twinkle around me like they were laced with spells.
He'd shake his head and say I was reckless, then promise to spot me anyway.
There's just something about the bridge—about its weight and width and light—that pulls the ache right out of my chest. There, for just a while, I'm whole.
My father is alive. My mother never died giving birth to me.
I'm not the orphan filling her silence with sarcasm and mafia errands and stolen egg rolls.
But alas, I am nothing if not a humble food mule for a possibly murderous family, and at this moment, my hands are full of dumplings and duty. I don't have time to think about such sad things and that is a good thing.
As I turn down Eighth Avenue the Petrov building looms above me like a polished monolith—eighty stories of mirrored glass and steel that catch every shard of city light, making it glow like some kind of corporate cathedral.
It's one of those skyscrapers that feels both intimidating and magnetic, with sleek lines that cut into the skyline and a logo so subtle you might miss it if you weren't looking.
At street level, the lobby is all black marble and gold trim, looking as elegant and legitimate as any other building in the city, hiding the true underbelly of crime.
I reach the front door of our office building, jiggling the handle with my elbow while trying not to drop three bags of steaming hot Chinese food. The glass is cold under my coat sleeve, and the thick chrome frame doesn't budge—locked tight, as it should be at this hour.
Fucking great.
I look around to see if any of the cleaning staff is leaving, or if I recognize anyone, but instead my eyes land on an ice cream truck sitting across the street.
I have never seen one idly sitting in the street without the lights on, and while some ice cream trucks are out in the winter in New York, it is way too late for a cone.
It must need a tow or something, and if I had my phone I would help, but I don't so I turn down the alley making a mental note to call a tow truck company when I get upstairs or tell Nadia about the suspicious ice cream truck.
I turn around back to the building and squint to see if anyone is inside but I can barely make out the edge of the reception desk under dimmed security lighting.
No sign of movement. No guards. No night staff.
Not even Viktor, who usually sits there listening to 80s synth on full blast as he mops the floors and cleans the window.
Just my reflection in the glass: cheeks red from the cold, curls puffing out around my head from the unfortunate combination of sweat and snow, and arms full of food that is screaming for me to eat.
I adjust the bags again, shifting the heaviest to the crook of my elbow, and go digging for my keys—awkwardly, blindly, trying not to let the dumplings take a nosedive.
"Come on," I mutter, shoving my hand deeper into the outer pocket of my puffer. Nothing.
I try the inner one. Receipts, lip balm, a random paperclip I have no reason to have—but no keys.
Panic starts to nibble at the edges of my stomach, because while I'm frantically searching for my missing keys, I also realize—I have no freaking phone.
I balance the bags on one arm, almost tumbling into a nasty pile of iced-over city sludge, and check the side pocket of my jeans. Empty. I check the other one. Still nothing.
Then I do the very undignified dance of checking my bra—because yes, I sometimes tuck my keys there when I'm rushing and can't deal with a bag. But not even the boob gods can save me.
That's when it hits me.
My keys are upstairs, sitting peacefully on the bunny-ear holder on my desk. My phone is in the last drawer of that same desk—also known as my work library—on Do Not Disturb. Because, of course, it was more important for me to grab my book than it was to grab my phone and keys.
I mean, I have no regrets—the ending was absolutely fantastic, and Victor LaValle deserves every award he's ever received—but this? This is a complete disaster.
I sigh to no one, because the streets are even more barren now than they were fifteen minutes ago. I lean forward and thunk my forehead—not so lightly—against the cold glass of the office building.
Because of course I would forget my keys and phone on the one night I'm carrying enough food to feed a Russian mob summit, and the Petrov building—unlike every other building in the neighborhood—has a biometric lock system that I'm not authorized on for plausible deniability reasons.
And because literally the universe hates me, Viktor is nowhere to be found, because why would he be?
I step back, the bags rustling angrily at my sides, and scan the lobby again, just in case someone miraculously appears. Still empty.
I adjust the bags as they start to slip. My nose is freezing. My fingers are numb. And the scent of hot food is practically clawing its way up into my brain, making my stomach growl in that obscene, desperate way that sounds like Feed me. Feed me. FEED. ME.
Then I remember. Roxie—the building's perpetually stoned maintenance woman—was supposed to fix the alley-side lock six months ago. She never did. And thank every chaotic star in the sky for that, because this is the third time this month I've forgotten my key.
In Roxie we motherfucking trust.
I sigh and head toward the alley between our building and the suspiciously serene yoga studio next door. The one with the flickering Find Inner Peace sign that looks like it's one spark away from a total existential breakdown—or not-so-spontaneous combustion.
And honestly? Same.
My stomach growls like a banshee beneath my puffer, and I glance down at the bags.
"Jakub won't miss one egg roll," I mumble to myself. "The man ordered five."
I wriggle one hand free, unwrap the waxy paper, and am immediately rewarded with the warm, greasy brilliance of Miss Ming's finest creation.
It scorches my frozen fingertips, but I shove the glorious thing into my mouth anyway.
If that woman didn't terrify me so much, I'd kiss the damn floor she walks on for making something this good.
"Miss?" a woman calls, stopping me just as I'm about to disappear down the alley.
"Yeah?" I answer, turning toward her.
She looks suspiciously dry for someone standing outside in the light drizzle of a snowstorm. Her short, pixie-cut brown hair frames a cute, freckled face, and for half a second, I assume she's a lost tourist.