Chapter One
Alora
5 days ago
“You will not die on me. Do you hear me, Angus?”
Death had followed me around my whole life, and I needed a damn break. Have you ever tried to escape something toxic? It clings to you, suffocates you, and dares you to fight back. And just when you think you’ve finally outrun it, it finds you again.
I poked the soil of my pothos plant, scrunching up my nose. “Shit, when was the last time I watered you?” I grabbed the spray bottle and misted Angus, the droplets clinging to his green leaves.
I’d rescued Angus from a dumpster behind the bar I worked at, the Altar, last month. He’d been on the verge of dying, but I’d nursed him back to health.
Or so I had thought.
“Look”—I pinched off a yellow leaf—“we had a deal, remember? I’ll keep you off those mean Brooklyn streets, and you stay alive.”
My phone pinged with a text, and I chuckled at the message from my sister.
Stop talking to that half-dead plant like a weirdo and get over here, it’s about to start!
“Ignore her, Angus, she’s just going through some things right now. ”
A leaf unfurled slightly, as if he understood me, and I grinned.
“That’s the spirit. Remember, you’re flourishing; you’re going to grow big and strong…” My phone pinged again, and I tossed the bottle onto the counter with a sigh.
“Did you get the tray?” I yelled over my shoulder as I grabbed a bottle of wine.
Yes, hurry!
I walked down the hall toward the living room, flicking off lights as I went. Dove was curled up on our tattered old couch, balancing my makeshift charcuterie board on her lap. The cheap plastic plate overflowed with snacks I had put together: PB it was like a safety blanket for her.
“The electric was almost two hundred last month.” I picked up a strawberry, popping it into my mouth. “Gotta suffer for a bit, ’kay?”
She gave me a thumbs-up and turned up the volume on the TV, since our neighbors picked that exact moment to have their tenth screaming match of the day.
An hour later, I was glaring at the credits rolling over the screen as Dove dabbed a tissue at the corner of her eye.
“See, she should have left with the money when she had the chance,” I scoffed and turned the TV off.
Dove twisted her face in annoyance and pulled out her phone. “Yeah, but then she wouldn’t have found out he loved her. And she has a baby now.”
“He tricked her and took everything from her. That’s not love.”
“But he had to because of his parents! Haven’t you ever heard it’s better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all?” She smirked, as if she had proven some type of point. At twenty-one, four years younger than me, Dove thought she had the entire world figured out.
“Love is a weakness people can exploit. One millisecond of happiness before its venom ruins you.” How could she not see that after what we had just watched?
“So, you think being in love is like being poisoned?” She shook her head when I nodded. “Stop being a party pooper. I thought it was a beautiful ending to their love story.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. In my experience, love stories didn’t have beautiful endings. After Jameson died, I’d watched my mom bounce from one relationship to the next, desperately trying to fill the void of losing her son. She’d become a doormat for men who used her, taking her heart and soul and smashing it into a million pieces. The cycle was always the same: false promises of love and devotion, followed by Mom drowning her sorrows in tequila, telling me everything would be OK.
Then Ray, Dove’s father, had come along when I was ten. Mom was convinced she’d finally found her soulmate. Hell, for a moment, I almost believed it, too. He arrived like a knight in shining armor, with two blonde twins by his side. But we know how that fairy tale ended—and it was far from a happily ever after.
If I had learned anything from her years of chasing after love, it was that love equaled pain. I wanted no part of it.
I wouldn’t say that to Dove. My stepfather was a sore subject around here. Also, I didn’t want to risk saying his name out loud. He was like Beetlejuice; if you called his name too many times, he might magically appear to make your life hell. We had been through enough of that lately.
“OK, fine.” I held up my wine glass. “To beautiful endings.” Our glasses clinked together, and I chugged the rest of my drink. “I have to get ready for work.” I groaned and stretched my arms over my head, my shirt riding up.
“I need to finish that.” She held her phone in one hand and pointed at the half-finished snake tattoo running up the right side of my stomach.
Dove was on her way to becoming one of the most talented tattoo artists New York had to offer. Her pieces were extremely detailed and hyper-realistic. If it hadn’t been for her attack, she would have finished her apprenticeship by now and had a spot at the Black Rose Ink tattoo parlor. Only the best of the best worked there.
“I’ll pick up some more ink.” I grabbed the empty tray and wine glasses and headed to the kitchen. My shift at the Altar started in an hour, and I made it a rule to never be late.
Twenty minutes later, I was showered and standing in front of the cracked bathroom mirror. My fingers worked quickly through my hair, weaving the raven-black strands together. Pink highlights still lingered after Dove and I had gone crazy with drugstore hair dye.
A spot on the ceiling caught my attention in the mirror, my smile dropping instantly.
The vent was loose.
I pulled a step stool from the corner and reached up for the vent. It popped off easy enough. Dread filled my body at what I knew I would find. I searched in the dark shaft for my box and yanked it out of its hiding spot.
I could tell from the weight of it that my money was gone. Over two thousand dollars I had made in tips over the past two weeks—poof, gone. There was only one person who could have done this. Well, two, but Ray knew if he showed up here, he would get a bat to the knees.
“Dove!” I yelled through the cracked bathroom door. “Was Dylan here recently?” My hand shook as I leaned against the sink. Fuck. That had been our rent money.
My phone pinged, and I glared at her response.
He came by last night while you were at work. He said he was worried about me since we hadn’t talked in a while.
No, that evil shit wasn’t worried about his twin, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her that. He’d come here to steal from me, something I had caught him doing in the past. Only the threat of calling the cops on him had made him stop. I despised the police, so he knew I meant business.
I’d done everything I could to keep Dylan and Dove safe from Ray after my mom passed away, and for a while, things were good. But slowly Dylan had started disappearing more and more, and I soon realized he was back working with Ray. It was hard for him to accept that we didn’t have a lot of money, that you were supposed to work hard for a living, especially since Ray had brainwashed him his whole life.
Ray was a professional thief and had raised us to follow in his footsteps. If it wasn’t for that last score gone wrong, I would probably still be picking locks and snatching wallets off innocent people. I wanted a different life. One where I didn’t have to look over my shoulder or hide in alleys to escape the police. And if that meant living paycheck to paycheck while I pursued my dream job as a professional photographer, then so be it. I had goals. Ambitions. Dreams. Hell, we were all living in the gutter, but I was reaching for the stars. Dove and I were passionate about having a better life, and we weren’t afraid of hard work to get it. But Ray and Dylan were always looking for a handout. Or their next score.
“He looks different. Rolling with some motorcycle club now. Seems very sketchy.”
I sucked in a deep breath, a million thoughts screaming through my mind. There was no backup plan. No plan B. I would rather die than ask Solene for money.
At least he hadn’t taken anything else from my box of secrets. I rummaged through the stack of notebooks of IOUs, something I had done after I started stealing. The notebooks were filled with names and places I had stolen from.
Sometimes I stole so we could put food on the table after going hungry for days. Other times, I did it so we wouldn’t be homeless. After my mom got sick, Ray had guilted me into bigger scores, telling me we couldn’t afford Mom’s medicine unless I helped him.
Then there were times I stole because I thought people deserved it. Like the smug businessman on the subway who made that pregnant woman stand for six stops before he gave up his seat. He was an easy mark .
A familiar unease fluttered in my stomach. I often worried I was a terrible person for stealing, even when it felt justified and necessary. At fifteen, I’d had two siblings to feed and a mother on her deathbed while my snake of a stepfather spent his time drinking and gambling. There hadn’t been a choice.
Them or us.
I had to keep remembering that.
My fingers brushed against the baby-blue envelope nestled under the notebooks with my name scribbled on it. The urge to tear it open and see what was inside was overwhelming. But I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Jameson’s final gift, given to me when I turned eight, would stay sealed, a reminder of the life we’d lost.
Maybe it was the guilt of knowing if it wasn’t for me, he would still be alive. Or maybe I just wasn’t ready to let go of him. I probably never would be. And until then, his last message to me would remain unknown.
I let the envelope slip from my grasp, my attention drawn to the crumpled black business card. The amount of times I had smashed that card between my hands, tossed it in the trash and then hours later run back to retrieve it was comical. It contained a single letter and a phone number. It didn’t matter that the ink was faded or that the card was worn; I had memorized it years ago. I traced my finger over the letter “K” inked in black, my mind flashing back to that night in the alley. I could call him… but what would I say?
Hey, K, remember me? The girl you almost killed but fucked the life out of instead? Mind if I borrow two thousand bucks?
I scoffed and tossed the card back into the box, and slammed the lid shut .
No. I didn’t need anyone to come save me. Life had already taught me there was no knight in shining armor coming to the rescue.
I dialed Dylan’s number, blowing out an exasperated breath when it went straight to voicemail.
“Dylan, I’m going to kick your ass from here to Queens if you don’t give me back my money. I’m not playing. That’s all I have for rent. Call me back ASAP.” I went to press end on the call but muttered a quick “Be safe,” before hanging up.
The chances of him calling me back were slim, and me getting my money back? Probably zero. I would have to pawn my camera again if I didn’t get that money before the end of the month.
Dove pushed the bathroom door open and threw her hands in the air as if to ask, What’s wrong?
“It’s nothing. Just wondering about him is all.” My cheeks heated at the lie, but she just nodded and headed back to the living room.
I threw on a pair of tight ripped jeans and a black tank top that showed off my cleavage. Working in a bar, I tried to dress sexy enough to get decent tips, but not so sexy that men felt entitled to my body or tried to follow me home.
I stuffed my switchblade into my combat boot, dabbed on some red lipstick, and sent a prayer down to Satan that a big wad of cash would fall into my lap tonight.
Dove poured me a cup of coffee to go and handed me a paper bag with my dinner and some blueberry muffins she had baked. She’d heard baking was supposed to help with stress and keep you calm. She’d turned into Martha Stewart on crack. Not that I was complaining. I threw in two more muffins for Zeke.
“I’ll be late tonight. Going to take pictures at the cemetery since the moon is full.” I kissed her cheek and then the picture of Mom and Jameson on the fridge.
“Be safe.”
“Always.” I rushed out the door. It slammed behind me as I juggled my keys, coffee cup, and giant bag.
I only made it five feet before I groaned internally at the wave of cheap cologne that permeated the hallway.
My landlord Dario strolled down the hall toward me, whistling and twirling his keys. His hair was in his usual slicked-back style, sweat stains covering his off-white shirt. He was the true definition of a slumlord. Never around to fix anything, always hounding tenants for the rent even though sometimes the building had no heat or water. Then there was hassling me to go on a date with him, even though he had to be at least twenty years older than me. According to him, he had connections all over the city and would take care of me real nice. Fucking gag.
“Hey, sexy, I was just thinking about you.” He grinned, running his tongue over the top row of his teeth.
“Oh, were you thinking about coming to fix the leak in the bathroom ceiling? It’s going to cave in any day now.”
He scowled and stopped twirling his keys. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll get Bobby to take a look.”
I attempted to walk past him, but his arm flew out, blocking my exit.
“Whoa, where you headed? I thought we could grab a drink at my place.” His eyes were fixed on my breasts, giving me goosebumps.
Always trust the goosebumps .
“Work, Dario.” I gave his arm a pointed look.
“You know”—he took a step closer, his belly pushing me into the wall—“if you’re nice to me, I’ll be real nice to you.”
Seriously fucking die already.
I debated throwing my coffee in his face, but decided I didn’t want to waste my caffeine, knowing I had a long shift ahead of me.
“I haven’t kicked you in the balls yet, have I? I’d say that’s pretty nice of me.” I tried to jerk away from his touch, but he caged me in between his arms, giving me a disgusting view of the sweat stains under his armpits.
“Don’t be like that, sweetheart.” He lowered his head until his lips were next to my ear. “I’ll make it good for you.”
I laced my keys between my fingers and gripped them. There were three rules I lived by. Rule number two: fear was a choice. Men like Dario didn’t scare me. Even though he was over a foot taller and had at least a hundred pounds on me, I knew he was a muppet. Just a small vile man thinking he could take advantage of people who were already struggling.
“If you ever want to use your pathetic excuse for a dick again, I suggest you get your hands off me.” I pressed the keys just under his gut, satisfaction coursing through me as his eyes widened.
We both snapped our heads to the side as my neighbor across the hall, Mrs. Fortino, threw her door open.
“Dario Butto, get your filthy hands off that girl.” She smacked him with a rolled-up newspaper until he stepped away from me. “You no-good scoundrel, your mama is rolling over in her grave.”
Dario huffed and held his hands up, and I took that as my cue to get the hell out of there.
I mouthed “thank you” to Mrs. Fortino and sped down the hall, not bothering to turn around as she berated him in Italian.
I was sick of his shit. This wasn’t the first time he had cornered me, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. We needed to get out of this hellhole with its gunshots, screams, and constant risk of being robbed by drunks or addicts. The cops did nothing to help, either. Not when the building across the street had caught on fire, or when a man had lain motionless in the street for over two hours before a squad car finally showed up. Just a few of the never-ending reasons my rule number three was to never trust the police.
The problem was money. Ever since Dove’s attack, she hadn’t been able to work, not that I expected her to. She needed time to heal and feel safe, and if that meant I had to work three jobs, then that was fine by me. But the past month had been harder than expected. The temp agency had been slow, and the dentist office I worked part time at was going bankrupt. The only money coming in this month was from bartending and from the community center where I figure-modeled once a month. Even though it was easy money, four hundred bucks for three hours of standing or lying mostly nude, it wouldn’t be enough to cover all our bills.
I just needed to get through the next few months. Things would be different soon. Fifty thousand dollars different .
All I had to do was win the Montreal International Photography Grand Prize.
I was one of ten finalists.
Out of thousands of entries.
I still couldn’t believe it.
When I’d submitted a collection of portraits last year to MIP, the judges were brutal. “Soulless and safe,” one judge had said.
Receiving that feedback had been a crushing blow. But they had been right. So this year I put my entire heart and soul into this project, a series of portraits of people from all walks of life in my gritty hometown, and it had worked.
Now, to win the grand prize, the finalists had to put together a new collection based on a secret theme:
Mortality.
The irony wasn’t lost on me that I was constantly surrounded by death in my life, and now I was basing my professional dreams on it.
I had two months before the submission deadline, and nothing was going to stop me from winning the grand prize.
Fifty thousand dollars and a solo exhibition at the Karsh Lovett Gallery.
Winning meant no more struggling to put food on the table or pay bills. It meant getting Dove professional help to deal with her trauma. It meant not having to worry about sleazy landlords trying to corner me late at night.
It was more than a competition. It was a lifeline.
I had to win.
Which meant I had to get that money back from Dylan, because if I had to pawn my camera, I was fucked.
I barreled out the door and navigated through the maze of empty beer cans and liquor bottles until I found Zeke sitting at the bus stop across from our building. He had been living outside our apartment ever since we had moved into the neighborhood. He never said much, but was always grateful when Dove and I gave him extra food. I knew what it was like to go hungry. To have nobody to help. And even though I didn’t have much, I was willing to share it with another lost soul like myself. His face lit up as he sniffed the muffins, his hand going over his heart.
“Blueberry this time. Maybe we’ll get lemon cake again this week if we’re lucky.” I chuckled and unlocked my old Buick.
I tried calling Dylan again on my way to work, then threw my phone in the passenger seat when it kept going to voicemail. What a nightmare this was. I had to stop going soft on him. Apparently, my version of tough love wasn’t tough enough.
Maybe I needed to borrow Mrs. Fortino’s rolled-up newspaper.
*** ***
I wiped down the wooden bar top for the hundredth time, the familiar scent of beer and whiskey hanging in the air. The Altar wasn’t necessarily a dive bar, but it wasn’t going to win any beauty awards either. The atmosphere was a constant buzz of clinking glasses, rowdy laughter, and the occasional creep who liked to get a little too handsy.
“Hey, Alora. The usual.” Frank slid onto his regular stool at the far end of the bar, away from the younger crowd .
“Coming right up, sugar.” I reached for the bourbon. My hands moved on autopilot, the motions ingrained in my body after years of making drinks for people.
My best friend, Solene Salinger, owned the bar with her older brother, Drake. It was a converted chapel that had quickly become the neighborhood’s favorite watering hole. I’d walked in here six years ago desperate and lost. The place had been in chaos, and Solene had offered me a job on the spot. Years later, the three of us worked in perfect harmony.
Solene and I worked the front, her devastatingly beautiful and charming, and me… well, definitely not charming, but I had an excellent resting bitch face and could make a Bloody Mary with my eyes closed. Drake ran everything behind the scenes, including security. Over six feet tall and covered in tattoos, he was the walking definition of tall and dangerously handsome. Customers rarely acted up when he was around.
Their younger sister Mira used to run the back office, but had started a new job a few months ago at Club Mayhem. She wanted to make more money, and apparently being a hostess at Mayhem was well worth it. Most nights she stopped by for a nightcap after her shift was over, eager to show me her wad of cash wrapped in a rubber band. Things had been heated between the siblings for a while after Mira had left, which had sucked because they were practically family to me, but thankfully, things were getting back to normal.
The next few hours went by with its usual Monday night chaos—flushed underwear clogging the women’s toilet, underage kids trying to buy drinks with fake IDs, and a heartbroken guy getting shitfaced after his girlfriend caught him cheating. By the time he was ready to leave, he was stumbling all over the place.
I reached out to steady him, slipped my hand into his back pocket and took his keys. Years of swiping wallets and jewelry off people had taught me to be quick and never get caught. There was no way I was letting him drive out of here. I handed him over to Drake, who tossed a basket of cheese fries in front of him and let him cry in the corner while he waited for a cab.
A little after midnight, Margot showed up dressed all in black with a hat covering her red curly hair. She made a beeline for me and slid her satchel onto the corner seat at the bar.
“Ugh, you would not believe the night I’ve been having.” Her fingers flew across her phone as she texted. “This guy I’ve been tailing is not only cheating on his wife, he’s also cheating on his girlfriend.”
Margot and I had met last year at the community center where we both were taking a photography class. I was taking the class because I wanted something useful to put on my MIP application. She worked for a private investigator who took on divorce actions. Her job was to get evidence to help her boss’s clients, which often meant taking photos of men or women cheating on their spouses or doing other terrible, and sometimes hilarious, things.
I poured her a glass of red wine without her asking. “Where’s the loyalty nowadays?”
“That’s what I said.” She glared down at her phone. “Not only have I been chasing this doofus all over the five boroughs, ruining my night, but now my boss wants me to fly out to Detroit next weekend for a new case.”
“Anything juicy?” I placed my elbows on the bar and cradled my face. Margot had the best stories. My favorite had been the husband who was convinced his wife was cheating on him because she would disappear every Sunday for hours and claimed she was going to book club.
Newsflash: it wasn’t a book club. She was a dominatrix. Men paid her to humiliate them and fulfil their fantasies. She would forever be my idol.
“The client who hired us thinks his dead wife is alive and living in Michigan, so hell yeah, it’s juicy.” Margot chuckled. “Mira just got off. She’s headed over.”
A large bachelorette party wandered in, and I left Margot while I served drinks and waited on tables. A short while later, Mira strolled in looking like a million bucks. I was convinced the Salingers had a touch of magic in their blood. They were all tall and naturally beautiful with charismatic laughs that made people stop in their tracks.
An expensively dressed man sat at the other end of the bar and tapped the counter to get my attention. I rolled my eyes as he yelled into his phone, his Russian accent thick.
I was not in the mood to deal with aggressive assholes this late. He ordered a double of vodka and told me to keep them coming. Something about him didn’t sit right with me. Maybe it was the way he was eye-fucking me, or the fresh cuts on his knuckles. He also had red splotches on the collar of his shirt. It could have been lipstick for all I knew, but I was betting on it being blood.
I trailed my fingers over the baseball bat we had mounted behind the counter, out of sight from customers. We called the bat Harley, because it was an exact replica of Harley Quinn’s bat. About once a month some pervert got too bold or tried to skip out on his tab, and they were promptly introduced to Harley.
Knowing the bat was within reach calmed my nerves. If this guy got out of hand, I would handle him.
I wiped the counter down and made my way back over to Margot and Mira, keeping one eye on the shady customer still barking into his phone.
“This guy is giving me weird vibes,” I whispered as I refilled their drinks.
“Who?” Margot asked just as Mira muttered, “Oh, God, here we go.”
“The guy behind me in the expensive suit.” I nodded over my shoulder.
“Don’t encourage her.” Mira shook her head. “You know Little Miss ‘I Don’t Trust No Man’ over here is just paranoid.”
I huffed and narrowed my eyes at her. “I am not paranoid.”
“Oh, really? What about that time you called Unsolved Mysteries because you swore that guy was a serial killer?”
“They had the same tattoos,” I muttered.
“I’m pretty sure every guy in the nineties had those nautical stars tattooed on their elbows.” She looked over my shoulder at the man. The smile on her face dropped instantly. “Oh, shit.”
My eyes widened at her tone, and I chanced a glance over my shoulder at him. He was dipping a napkin into his shot glass and dabbing his knuckles with it .
“No, don’t look at him.” Mira slapped my hand, and I turned back around.
“You know him?”
“I’ve seen him around Mayhem. You see that tattoo on his wrist? The wolf with the Z? He’s Russian mafia. Zokrov Bratva to be exact. Dangerous bastards.” She tapped her fingers against her drink, and I filled it up for her.
“How do you know that?” Margot leaned forward, trying to get a look at the guy.
“Technically, I work for his boss, Kreos Zokrov, who owns Mayhem. Hell, he practically owns half of New York.” Mira shook her head and took a sip of her drink. “He’s a lunatic. Sexy as hell, but crazy. If you ever see anyone with that tattoo, you run the other way.”
The man stood then, tossing a pile of bills on the table. We all held our breath as he passed by, not sparing us another glance.
Mira liked to joke I didn’t trust men, but in reality, I hardly trusted anyone, man or woman. Except my close friends. I had learned long ago that most people were only looking out for themselves, and if you showed any type of weakness, they would eat you up and spit you out.
The girls stayed for another round of drinks and then headed out. My shift ended an hour later, close to two in the morning. Drake offered to walk me to my car, but I flashed my keys, gripped between my knuckles, and he sent me on my way.
The parking lot was nearly empty as I made my way to my beat-up old Buick. I tossed my bag onto the passenger seat, my car humming to life. I wanted nothing more than to go home and crawl into bed. But the full moon tonight offered the perfect lighting to capture photos. Since the contest theme was mortality, I couldn’t think of a better place to get some shots than the cemetery.
A noise caught my attention, and I lowered the volume on the radio.
Something was off.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and my eyes darted to the rearview mirror. The backseat appeared empty.
Goosebumps erupted over my skin, and I slowly slid my hand down my calf and reached for my switchblade in my boot.
“You have five seconds to get the fuck out of my car,” I whispered into the darkness. In that moment, I hoped—no, I prayed—nobody would answer me.
But my instincts had been right.
My eyes widened as a shadowy figure moved into my peripheral.
I gasped, ready to scream and attack, but before I could do anything, a large hand clamped over my mouth from behind.
My goosebumps were never wrong.