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 wantin. 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 readingThe 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. Thelast 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 withLove Islandtonight."
The words are barely out of my mouth before I freeze.
Shit.
I saidLove Island. Nadia's ex—he-who-should-not-be-named but is, unfortunately, a ridiculously hot assassin who lives in Japan—lovedLove 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 readsendearingand notplease-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.
