The mirrored walls catch me the second I step inside, and I hate the sight of what stares back.
A woman who knew better.
And fell anyway.
The thought makes me want to smash my fist through the glass.
By the time the doors open into the lobby, I’m breathing too hard. One of the security men straightens when he sees me heading for the exit, his attention on me.
“Mrs. Viacava?”
“Back soon,” I say in a rush.
He says my name again, louder this time, but the revolving doors are already turning. The city street hits me with cold air and people moving in all directions with coffees in hand and phones pressed to their ears.
Compared to Dublin, everything here feels bigger, brighter, and harsher. Horns blare. A bike messenger curses at a taxi. Somewhere nearby, a siren cuts through the air and keeps going.
I’m walking without knowing where to go. After a few blocks, I pull out my phone and call Connor. I was meant to have dinner with him after my gym session and now I’m wandering the streets with a pain in my chest.
When he doesn’t pick up, I try again and leave a voice message, telling him to call me back.
A black SUV crawls along the curb, and my instincts flare. I bet the security told Bronx I left… and this damn phone will have a tracker on it.
I cut down the next side street, tap Connor’s number and call him again. When he doesn’t pick up, I wait for the beep.
“Con. Leave the condo. Find ahotel to lie low in. Bronx is a liar. I think I’m being followed, so I’ll call you when I can.”
Then I end the call, glance behind me and toss the phone into a dumpster on my way past. Neither of us will step foot in Bronx’s condo again.
After a few more blocks, I gravitate to a bar on the corner that looks like somewhere people go when they want to be left the hell alone.
So I check over my shoulder, wait for a few seconds, and then push inside.
The stench of stale booze hits first, and then the smoke of a lit cigar wafts over from a guy sitting alone at the bar. There’s a couple in a corner booth getting handsy and knocking back shots.
I take the end seat at the bar where I can see the door and hang my purse across my chest.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.
“Vodka and coke.”
She pours a healthy measure into a glass, splashes in a watery brown soda and slides it toward me. I knock half of it back in one gulp and wipe my mouth.
Even though it tastes vile, I finish it and ask for another.
For half an hour, I just sit there with the glass in my hand and the music rising and falling around me, trying to process everything.
My da never mentioned the Murphy debt to me, which means he doesn’t just owe them a few quid. I need to contact Connor, book us a flight home to Dublin and hide out in a safe house until I can figure out my next move.
The bartender sets down a bowlof nuts I didn’t ask for. I ignore them. My stomach is in knots, and the cheap vodka is sitting in it like fuel waiting for a spark.
“Another?” the bartender asks.
“No,” I shake my head. “I’m good.”
I pull out a hundred-dollar bill because it's the smallest I have and set it on the counter. “That’s for the drinks. And if you’ve got a phone with an internet connection, I’ll need to use that too.”
The bartender looks at the money as she dries a glass. “I’m sure I could lend you my phone for a few minutes. As long as you aren’t bringing trouble to my door?”
