The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Poppy
“Who does your hair?”
I look up from my Gin Fizz and lock eyes with the blonde woman who’s given me nothing but daggers for the last hour and a half. And when she hasn’t been giving me daggers, she’s been interrupting all the other women’s conversations and whispering in the ear of the brunette next to her, before they both burst into sniggers. It doesn’t take a degree to realize who’s Queen Bitch in this group here.
“Huh?”
She sips on her Chardonnay, then, as if she’s realized I’m stupid, raises her tone and slows her words. “Who. Does. Your. Hair?”
Some of the other women around the table tear away from their conversations to watch the exchange. With a new audience, I force myself not to scowl. Instead, I plaster a sickly sweet smile on my lips and cock my head. “Emilo.”
She frowns. “Who?”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise, then bite my lip. “You don’t know Emilo?” Then, I drag a concerned expression over her own poker-straight extensions. They stop in a blunt line just above the waist of her Versace dress. “I thought everyone on the East Coast knew Emilio. It makes sense, I guess.”
She rests her chin on her hand and leans across the table, studying me. “What makes sense?”
I shrug. “He doesn’t offer appointments to just… anybody,” I say with a wince. “Sorry.”
A ripple of laughs rolls around the table, and Queen Bitch gives me one last lingering glare before turning her attention to the brunette’s ear once more. The woman next to me laughed the hardest.
She’s by far the most beautiful around the table of wives and girlfriends. Her long black hair isn’t a weave or chemically straightened, and she’s wearing only a lick of mascara and smear of lip gloss on her caramel face. When my eyes travel a little lower, I realize she’s wearing skinny black jeans and an off the shoulder top. If it wasn’t for the sea of ballgowns around me, I’d feel incredibly overdressed next to her.
When I turn to flash her a small smile, she reaches out her hand. “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Nova.”
“Poppy,” I say, taking her small hand in mine.
“Ignore her,” she says out the side of her mouth, jabbing a thumb towards Queen Bitch. “She’s salty that you’re with Lorcan Quinn. She’s had her eye on him since forever.”
I glance back towards Queen Bitch, a new wave of hatred washing over me, one that the rationale in my brain can’t control. Then, I think back to the possessive kiss he planted on my lips as we entered Gatsby’s, and the jealousy fades into satisfaction. “Makes sense,” I mutter.
Nova nods at my glass, which has nothing but a few melting ice cubes hanging out in the bottom of it. “You’ve been nursing that drink for an hour. Wanna head to the bar?”
A wiggle of her eyebrows adds a second part to her question. And get the fuck away from these women?
I nod, ignoring the stares from the other women as we leave the table and head to the bar. As soon as we’re away from them, Nova lets out a sigh of relief. “Honest to god,” she says, signaling to the bartender, “I’d rather pluck each of my toenails off completely sober than listen to another conversation about how they managed to skip the Birkin bag waiting list this season. Whatever beer you have on tap and a Gin Fizz,” she says to the bartender, then she turns back to me. “Unless you want something stronger?” she says with that eye wiggle again.
My eyes flick towards the door Lorcan disappeared through almost two hours ago. “Uh, I better not,” I laugh. “Let’s make that gin extra strong though.”
While the bartender busies himself with the bottle of Bombay Sapphire Club, Nova rests against the bar and turns to me. “So, you’re new to this world.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because you haven’t once asked how Sasha’s newborn is, or how Vittoria’s getting on with her new gardener. You know, the usual small talk.”
“I have no idea who any of those women are,” I admit.
She flashes me a dazzling grin. “You’re lucky.”
“You’re clearly not new to this world, so how come you’re here?”
“I’m not a wife or girlfriend, if that’s what you’re asking. My father and brother are in there,” she jabs a thumb towards the mysterious back room, “talking to your man. So, if you hear gunshots anytime soon, duck and run for cover.”
The glint in her eyes tells me she’s joking, but I still wince. Then, she nods in the direction of the wives and girlfriends table. “The bitchy blond is Vittoria. She’s the third wife of Alessandro Regazzi. However, she’d leave him in a heartbeat for Lorcan Quinn, even though that’d cause world war three.” I give her a blank stare, which makes her laugh. “Jesus, you’re really not from this world, are you? Alessandro’s the big, beefy Italian in there with your man. Rules the West Coast. My family, the Mondezes, we’re based down in Texas.”
I thank the bartender when he brings over our drinks, but want to rescind that thanks immediately once I take a sip. “Jesus, he really took ‘extra strong’ to heart.” I stab at an ice cube with my straw, then decide to try my luck. “What’s this meeting about, then?”
She raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow at me, accompanied by a smirk. “I don’t think I want to know how you fell into this world, Poppy.”
I grit my teeth. “Yeah, I don’t think you do, either.”
She rests her elbows against the bar, arching her back. I wish I was as comfortable as her, instead the fabric of this gown is itching my back, and my feet are starting to ache, even though I’ve been standing for a total of five minutes. “It’s all business, baby. I try to stay out of it. Long story short, they are trying to form an alliance to take down the Bratnovs.”
Well, this is the most information I’ve gotten out of anyone the entire time I’ve been at the Museum. “Bratnovs?”
“The Russians who rule New York. Used to supply all the drugs to Boston too. Had a treaty with your man’s family, I think. Something’s gone wrong somewhere, and now they are in the midst of a full-blown war.”
My blood runs cold. That explains the extra security and Lorcan disappearing for days at a time. “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”
“Welcome to mafia royalty, baby,” she says with a chuckle, as laid back as can be. “So,” she continues, taking a swig of her beer. “Lorcan Quinn. I’ve never met him in person but I’ve heard he’s… quite the firecracker.”
“What do you mean by that?”
She turns her hand into a gun, squeezes an eye shut and pretends to shoot. “I’ve heard he’s trigger happy. Brutally so. Brawn first, brains second.”
I grit my teeth, feeling suddenly protective over him. “Actually, Lorcan’s really smart,” I snap back before I can stop myself. “I think he’s still grieving the death of his father and brother.”
Only when this revelation leaves my lips do I realize that’s probably the case. It’s something I’ve never thought about before. The drinking… the sudden outburst of anger.
A pang of sadness stabs my chest.
Nova cocks her head. “Sorry, baby. Was only making convo.”
“No,” I flash her a smile, not wanting to lose my new-found friend because I’ve caught a case of Stockholm Syndrome. “You’re totally right. I just think he’s a little misunderstood.”
She offers a small nod, suddenly turning serious. “Aren’t we all.” Another swig of her beer, then she says, “I wish they’d hurry up, I’m starving.”
My tummy rumbles right on cue. “Same.”
I glance at the door to the backroom again, and Nova’s words ring out in my ears. If you hear gunshots, duck and run. A sickly feeling settles in my stomach. I know she was joking… but what if she’s right?
It’ll be the perfect chance to escape.
Somehow, that thought disappears into a puff of smoke a few moments later when the door opens and Lorcan darkens the doorway. Relief, no matter how unwanted, floods through me. We lock eyes, and I find myself smiling at him.
His face still hard, he steps out of the doorway and into the suddenly deathly silent room. Gazing at all of the faces staring expectantly at him, he turns his attention back to me, pinning me with that hypnotic gaze.
“Let’s eat.”