Page 10 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

“Fuck me.” I toss the phone on the bed, any window of hope I had with reaching my sister now closed. Wait. I look around for a phone in the room but no dice. Then again, given the price per night, I’m not surprised.

By mid-afternoon sleep pulls me under but any little noise throws me into a panic and I wake up startled. I curl on my side, my clothes and boots on in case I have to make a run for my life. I'm out for maybe forty minutes before a door slams somewhere down the hall and I jolt upright so fast my vision goes white around the edges. My heart hammers for a solid minute before the adrenaline recedes and leaves me sitting on the bed with a dry mouth and not a single thing in this room to eat.

I head for the shower and risk my life long enough to wash the stench of back alleys off my skin. The soap is cheap and breaks off in my palm, but it’s better than how I currently smell. The temperature can't decide between lukewarm and cold, but it's wet and it washes the worst of yesterday off my body.

I pull my dirty shirt back on and stare at myself in the foggy mirror.

"You can't keep wearing this."

The woman in the mirror agrees but offers no solutions.

Good thing I know how to improvise.

Three

Cora

Iwait until late afternoon when shift change hits and slip out of the motel. The diner two blocks over has a staff locker room around back and the cook who works mornings leaves through the kitchen door propped open with a brick. I used to deliver their table flowers every other Friday.

I grab a clean shirt from the locker room, pull it on in the bathroom, and I'm back in my motel room before anyone notices. And I snagged a little something else.

“I hope it’s the right connection.”

I grab my phone and yes! It works. I sit on the edge of the bed with my phone in my lap and the room going dark around me. A heaviness settles over me as I watch the battery flash back to life with a single bar.

I tap my sister’s name while shooting up a prayer.

Voicemail. Her voice fills my ear and my throat tightens.

“Please pick up. Just once.”

The last time Raine was in town, we had a girl’s night out. She had just landed the job with Soren Wolfe in Seattle and we celebrated downtown at a bar near the river. Me, Raine, and a couple of her friends. We drank too much and laughed too loud and Raine did that thing where she pretends she's too sophisticated for tequila shots and then pounds them back like a pro.

It was a good night. One of those nights where the world felt small, cozy, and manageable. I had the flower shop, a boyfriend and my sister sitting next to me. Everything was right in the world for once.

By the time we made it to the third cocktail, the conversation shifted away from monster dildos to an even weirder topic. Wishes.

One of Raine's friends leaned in and started talking about a secret society. Or at least that is how I interpreted it. She told me about a club inside Redthorne Holdings called Scarlet Thorn. Super swanky but also super low key. She went into detail about the men who run it. Elite mobsters with deep pockets. Real powerful guys who are connected and operate in a world where impossible things happen because the men making them happen have the resources and the will.

And then she said something about wishes. A box where people leave wishes and these men grant them.

Like they are freaking mobster genies or something.

I laughed. It sounded like a fairy tale. Impossible and if true, it was only meant for people whose problems were way bigger than mine would ever be.

But your problems are bigger now, a voice pipes up in my head.

I bolt upright on the bed. My feet hit the floor and I'm shoving them into my boots before the thought fully forms.

The wish box. Scarlet Thorn. Redthorne Holdings.

I ball a fist and hammer it against the mattress. “Holy shit.” Hope threads through the fear keeping me on this side of a flimsy locked door rather than facing down Nikolai.

I check the buttons of my borrowed uniform, shove my dead cell phone into my pocket, and head for the door.

The evening is cold when I step out of the taxi. Sharp wind cuts across Michigan Avenue, whipping my hair into a tangled mess. I hand over the last of the fifty dollars to the driver and walk through the revolving doors. Warm air pushes against my face, carrying the smell of leather, expensive cologne and old money. Elegant women with flawless makeup track my every step as I cross the lobby. I know I look like I’ve walked out of the gutter but at least my shirt is clean. I run my palms over the itchy material and glance down. Yep. Not a stain in sight.

I have no money, no brush and only an inkling of hope my idea will work.