Page 11 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

“Yeah, I totally got this.”

The lobby is littered with men in suits who don't give me a second glance. I cross to the elevator bank and press the button before I can talk myself out of a really silly idea.

The elevator rises with a smooth hum and soft classical music I would normally make fun of but my sense of humor checked out about forty-eight hours ago. When the doors open, the air shifts. It’s warmer up here with a heavier energy. Not oppressive, just thick. Maybe it’s from the various expensive perfumes mixing with the heat of candlelight welcoming me when I step out of the elevator.

A host in an immaculate suit stands behind a podium. There’s a thick leather-bound book open in front of him and he holds a fountain pen poised in his hand. His smile is warm and practiced and aimed at a woman who looks like she crawled here from a dumpster.

Me.

"Welcome to Scarlet Thorn." His eyes sweep over my diner uniform and messy hair without a flicker of judgment, which tells me he's either very well trained or has seen worse. "May I have your signature?” His eyes fall to the left side of my shirt. “Ms. Louise?"

He turns the book toward me. The pages are gilt-edged, cream-colored, filled with signatures that look like calligraphy. Mine is going to look like a toddler got hold of the pen.

“Louise is a friend,” I offer with a smile. Which is true. She makes great coffee and apple pie every other Friday.

I sign my name. Cora Vale. The fountain pen is heavier than any pen I've ever held and the ink gleams wet against the page.

"I see, Ms. Vale. A hostess will escort you to the lounge."

A woman in a black evening gown appears beside me and gestures for me to follow.

And just like that I’m in. Maybe my horoscope wasn’t all wrong.

The lounge opens up around me in shades of crimson and gold, crystal chandeliers throwing warm light across white marble floors and velvet furnishings that look like they cost more than my entire building. Beautiful people lounge on low couches, sipping cocktails that catch the light, their laughter mixing with sultry music pulsing from hidden speakers. Every woman in here wears a dress that could double as body paint, and the men all carry themselves like they own the building next door.

Meanwhile I’m rocking the hell outta my gardening boots.

"Cool. Totally belong here." I mutter it under my breath and keep walking.

The hostess glides ahead of me and I reach out and touch her elbow before she can disappear. She turns with a patient smile.

"I'm sorry, this is going to sound..." I press my lips together and feel the heat creep up my neck to settle into my cheeks. "Where can I find the wish box?"

If the question surprises her, she doesn't show it. Her smile warms and she dips her chin like I just asked for the restroom instead of a miracle.

"Of course. Follow me."

She leads me across the lounge floor, weaving between couples and clusters of guests who part for her like she's made of something more expensive than the rest of us. We pass the bar where bartenders move slow and deliberate, mixing drinks with flawless movements and perfectly poised expressions. We pass a man in a tuxedo feeding a strawberry to a woman in a dress that's more of a suggestion than actual fabric. Nobody looks at me. Nobody cares about the florist in the fryer-grease shirt shuffling past their champagne and caviar.

And thank the heavens for that.

We reach the far end of the lounge where a heavy black velvet curtain hangs floor to ceiling, barely visible in the low light unless you know to look for it. The hostess draws it aside and gestures me through.

"The wish room is at the end of the corridor. Take your time."

I step past the curtain and the world shifts the second the material falls back into place behind me. The white marble gives way to black, polished so dark I can see my own reflection in the floor. The walls are matte black with veins of gold leaf running through them that catch the dim lighting and glow. The music from the lounge fades to a dull pulse behind me, replaced by silence and the faint smell of candle wax.

At the end of the corridor is a single red door with gold handles.

I step up and slowly push it open.

Candles line the perimeter of a room painted the deepest black I've ever seen, with streaks of scarlet red curling across the walls like living things. The flames flicker and dance, throwing warm light across a velvet pedestal at the center of the room. On the pedestal sits a box made of dark wood and gold filigree, gleaming in the candlelight like something holy.

A small table beside the box holds a stack of red envelopes and a fountain pen.

I stand there for a long moment, just breathing. The room is warm and smells like wax and old wood. For the first time in two days, I’m not scared.

I pick up the fountain pen and pull a red envelope from the stack. The pen is heavy in my hand and the ink flows smooth and dark across the paper.