His hand froze mid-air.
He didn’t move again.
I walked out without slamming the door.
Anger that deep didn’t need noise.
By the time the elevator reached the lobby, my chest felt wrapped in wire.
I climbed into the first taxi I saw.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“Anywhere people don’t know me.”
He dropped me outside the Brass Nickel — a dark bar in a neighborhood where streetlights were mostly decorative.
The place smelled like bleach, cheap gin, and old cigarettes.
I ordered the cheapest bottle behind the bar and sat in the booth across from a stranger.
He wore a black tailored suit.
One hand rested beside a glass of untouched whiskey.
The men nearest him kept their voices low and their eyes lower.
My hands were still shaking.
“You look like someone died,” he said.
“Something did,” I replied.
His gaze sharpened. “What?”
“My wedding.”
For the first time, something like amusement crossed his face.
I lifted the bottle.
“Would you like to help me ruin it properly?”
He studied me.
Then he raised his glass.
That’s when the bartender leaned close and whispered, “Lady, do you have any idea who you’re talking to?”
Before I could answer, the stranger smiled.
“Tell me where the wedding is, Nora.”
I froze.
How did this stranger in a mafia bar know my name?
And more importantly — what was I about to agree to? 👇
