Deadly Oath

Chapter Two

Evely n

One year later

I check my watch surreptitiously as the woman sitting on the other side of the oval table between us fills out a check. I can’t remember ever having actually written a paper check in my life, but the woman who just approved the last stage of her dress fitting is seventy if she’s a day, so I expected it. She’s one of the clients I picked up from the Christmas party at the Met last year, and I’ve been more than happy with her business. Tonight, we finalized a New Year’s dress for her, which happens to be her fiftieth wedding anniversary, and she was thrilled with it in every aspect.

But, much like last year, I have a party to get to tonight. And, while it’s nowhere near as prestigious as Dahlia’s award’s gala last year, I don’t want to be late to this one, either.

The bell above my door rings, and I wince. I thought I’d locked up—Angela is my last client of the night—but I must have forgotten, or not turned it all the way. The lock has started sticking, and I’ve been so busy that I keep forgetting to fix it.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, getting up. “I’ll be right back. Someone just came in, and I should be closed for the night.”

“No worries, dear. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

The small parlor-style room we were sitting in is just off of the main space of my shop—which isn’t all that large. I see the person—the man —who walked in immediately, and stop in my tracks, frowning.

He doesn’t look at all like the sort of client who usually comes in. He’s wearing loose black cargo pants, a tight long-sleeved shirt with a slim-cut leather vest over it, with fingerless gloves and heavy combat boots, a motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm. As he shifts, I think I see a bulge at his back, and my heartbeat speeds up just a little. I don’t run in the sort of circles where I see people carrying guns, but I have a suspicion that’s what that is.

“Hi—I’m sorry, but I don’t carry or design men’s clothing,” I call out, as politely as I can. “If you’re here to ask about a commission for someone else, I can give you my card, but you’ll need to come back in the?—”

“I’m not here for a commission.” His voice is gravelly, as if he smokes, too old for his face, which I see now looks to be the face of a man in his late twenties at best. My age, but he carries himself as if he’s much older, too, a threatening tilt to his posture that puts me on edge.

“What can I help you with, then? I’m afraid I’m actually closed, the door should have been?—”

He chuckles. “Locks don’t mean much to me, lady. I’m here for business.”

“I’m not sure what sort of business?—”

“Money.” The man steps closer, close enough for me to see his features in the low light, which frightens me. All of my internal alarms are going off, and I don’t think a man like this wants me to see his face unless he intends for me to do exactly as he’s asking.

“I don’t keep money here. Not more than incidental cash. No matter what you threaten me with, that’s the truth?—”

“I’m not here to threaten you. I’m here to offer you protection.”

I frown, more confused than ever. “Protection from what? I’m sorry, I’m in the middle of—” I start to say business with a client, but I don’t actually want this man to know that there’s someone in the other room if I can help it. I’m hoping with everything in me that her hearing is bad enough that she’s not picking up on this conversation. “Closing up,” I finish lamely, and he smirks at me.

“This will only take as long as you make it take, Evelyn .”

The fact that he knows my name sends a shudder through me. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘protection’,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible. “I need you to leave, or I’m calling the police.” My phone is in my back pocket, and I set one hand on my hip, inching my fingers back to press the side button rapidly if need be.

“You don’t want to do that. They can’t help you, Evelyn. But we can.”

“I don’t need help.” That comes out a little more assured, since I truly don’t know what this man is talking about. “I’m fine. And I’m going to be late for an event, so I need you to?—”

“This is a nice place you’ve got here.” He makes a show of looking around, and my chest tightens. “Unfortunately, it’s in Bratva territory. Yashkov territory. They’re dangerous, Evelyn. Very dangerous. Cruel, brutal men, especially when it comes to pretty young women like you. You need protection from them. So you pay us, and we make sure that they don’t interfere with you.”

Yashkov. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Maybe I heard it in a movie? Maybe it’s a common Russian surname.

“I don’t know much about the Bratva,” I tell the man in front of me, still struggling to keep my voice steady. “But I haven’t had any trouble with them so far. I don’t think that will change. Thanks for the offer, but?—”

“You don’t know that you haven’t had trouble with them.”

“I haven’t had any trouble for as long as I’ve had this shop.” My finger inches backwards, pressed against the side of my phone. “So I appreciate your concern, but I really need you to go. Or?—”

“You’ll call the police. I see what you’re doing right there.” He nods to where my hand is brushing against my phone. “I’m not stupid, Evelyn. And you don’t want to make enemies of us. Not when we’re just trying to help you.”

“ Who are you, anyway?” I snap, as quietly as I can manage. Any minute now, Angela is going to come out and ask me what’s taking so long. And I want this man gone before she does.

“Crows.” He taps a small patch on his vest, just over his chest. I hadn’t noticed it, but now I see that there’s an embroidered crow flying under a gold arch, with letters embroidered around it. I assume that has something to do with his standing in this—gang, but I don’t really care about that. What I care about is that he leaves my shop. “We don’t like the hold the Yashkov Bratva has here. And we aim to do something about it. We’ll make sure you don’t get caught in the crossfire.”

“And if I say no? ”

The man smirks. “Well, I guess if you’re not with us, you’re against us. Guess you’re taking the side of the Bratva, then.”

Anger flares in my chest. “I’m not taking any sides ,” I snap at him. “None of this has anything to do with me. I don’t even know if I believe you. Mobs, gangs—this is just a clothing boutique, and I don’t want anything to do with all of this. So leave , please . Or I am going to call the police. The only reason I haven’t yet is that I don’t want to spend the rest of my evening here, giving a statement, instead of drinking with my friends at a Christmas party.” I narrow my eyes at him. “And I don’t think you want to deal with the cops, either. So just go. I’m not going to be extorted and I don’t want any part of…whatever this is.”

He chuckles. “You’re bold. I like that. Hang onto it, Evelyn. You’ll need it.”

I open my mouth to retort, but he’s already leaving, shoving open the door and letting in a burst of frigid air as he walks to a motorcycle parked near the curb, an all-black sportbike. I see the patch on the back of his vest as he goes—a larger version of the one on his chest, this time with a bloodied knife held in the crow’s beak.

The minute he’s gone, I go to the door, yanking the lock shut with shaking fingers. Angela still hasn’t emerged, and when I go back into the small consultation room, she’s sitting primly on the couch, her filled-out check sitting on the oval table.

“Is everything alright, dear? I thought I heard some conversation.”

“Absolutely fine,” I lie, grateful that her hearing aids clearly aren’t good enough to have picked up the conversation between myself and the Crow. “Just someone who came by the wrong store.”

I finish up with Angela, taking the check and writing down the last of her notes for the final alterations to her dress, and then escort her to the door. I walk her all the way to her driver waiting for her at the curb—I’m more than a little worried about her falling on the icy sidewalk—and then wrap my arms around myself against the chilly wind, looking around a bit nervously before heading back into the store to finish closing up.

Part of me knows that I should have called the cops anyway, and made a report. If that man, or any other member of his gang, comes back, it will help. It’ll establish a pattern of behavior, or something like that. But I wasn’t lying when I said that I didn’t want to spend my evening giving a statement to the police.

I have somewhere to be. My kind of party, one with all of my friends, music, and laughter. The kind of party that this time of year feels happier and more festive than any other. I don’t want to miss it while waiting in my empty shop for a couple of NYPD officers to eventually make their way around to take a report down.

If I see anyone with a black vest, or a black sportbike hanging around, I’ll call, I tell myself as I stash Angela’s check in my purse and give the shop another once-over, before collecting my keys and making very sure that the lock is secure this time. Maybe it was just some punk kid, playing a prank, I think as I start the walk back to my tiny studio apartment.

It’s five blocks, and it’s cold, but I don’t mind. The lights cheer me up, helping me shake the lingering feeling of unease left over from the Crow’s visit. The further I get from the shop and that uncomfortable moment, the more unreal it seems, fading back until I feel sure that it wasn’t as big of a deal as it felt at the time. Definitely some kid, getting off on scaring local business owners. Running a scam, maybe. I was right to stand my ground about it, I feel sure, and if I see any hint of him again, I definitely will call the police.

With that in mind, I head up to my tiny studio apartment. I hear my dog, Buttons, barking before I even open the door, and I no sooner step inside than I’m accosted by fifty pounds of energetic white fluff.

“Hey there, little guy,” I croon, running my hands through his fluffy fur as I drop my bag in the entryway and grab his harness. Buttons is anything but little, a marshmallow of three-year-old Samoyed, but I’ve called him that since he was a puppy that fit in my arms, and it’s stuck. “Let’s go walk, and then I’ve got a party to get to. I brought you something to keep you busy though, don’t worry.”

An hour later, Buttons is walked and fed, and happily chewing on a puzzle toy shaped like a Christmas tree and filled with treats. I’m in my party outfit—a dolman-sleeved forest green knit sweater with a fitted black leather skirt that has an asymmetrical leather ruffle at the hem, and a fringed and embroidered shawl, my hair thrown up in a pile of curls. I pull on my black velvet knee-high boots, ignoring how terrible they are for the weather, and as I do, a faint memory slips back into my mind.

You almost took a tumble, there.

I’d all but forgotten about the handsome Russian man who saved me from falling on the icy sidewalk last Christmas, at the Met party. I can’t quite remember his name—it’s somewhere in the fringes of my memory, but I remember the way his arm felt around me, and the distinct juniper and woods scent of his cologne. I still don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything better on a man.

Maybe Dahlia was right, I think ruefully as I get into a cab to head to her apartment, where the party is being thrown. Maybe I should have gone home with him that night. It would have ended like it always does, with him never calling me again, but maybe that wouldn’t have been the worst thing. Over the last year I’ve been on a handful of dates, none of them good, and none of them ending in more than a kiss goodnight. My ‘dry spell,’ as Dahlia called it, is well and truly a desert, and I’ve started to wonder if I’m ever going to meet someone that I want to go on a second date with, let alone fall passionately into bed with.

I don’t even really remember what that’s like. I’m not sure it’s something that I’ve ever had. Decent enough sex, yes, but passion ? Chemistry, sparks, a feeling of needing someone like food, or water, or air?

I definitely don’t know what that’s like.

The party is in full swing by the time Dahlia buzzes me up to her apartment. She’s wearing a shimmery gold babydoll dress, her blonde hair in thick, loose curls around her shoulders, a cranberry spritz in one hand as she opens the door. Inside, it smells of perfume and cologne and warm bodies, her apartment awash in soft light and her pink-and-white decorated Christmas tree taking up a third of her living room. Guests—some of whom are also my friends and some of whom are not—filter in and out of her kitchen, getting drinks and snacks off of the spread that I catch a glimpse of through the archway that leads into it.

“I thought you were going to be late,” Dahlia exclaims, taking my coat and giving me a hug. “I texted you.”

“Sorry,” I say apologetically, heading straight for the kitchen and a drink as she trails behind me. “I had to take care of Buttons, and I was held up leaving the store. Actually—kind of literally.” I tell her about the Crow as I ladle some of the sparkling punch into a crystal glass—Dahlia actually uses her good glassware for parties. I’d be terrified that someone would break it, but when I expressed that once, she shrugged and said if they did, she’d use her parents’ credit card to replace it.

Dahlia lives a bit of a charmed life. But the thing I love about her is that it’s never gone to her head. She’s sweet and thoughtful, always gets the tab if she wants to go out somewhere that she knows is out of my budget, and works as hard at her job as anyone else, even though she could quit tomorrow and be fine.

“Did you call the police?” Dahlia looks shocked as I take a sip of my drink, scooting around to the side of the long island where all of the food is laid out. I snag a particularly tempting-looking crostini with cream cheese and a curl of smoked salmon, and shake my head.

“No. I would’ve been at the shop for hours. You know they wouldn’t have prioritized that, I’d have been waiting for ages for someone to be bored enough to come by. And then I would have had to give them the statement. I would have missed most of the party. And you know how busy I’ve been. I didn’t want to miss this.”

Dahlia’s mouth twists as she nods. It’s been a good year for me at the boutique, but with that has come necessarily having to turn down a lot of things I normally do. Our weekend nights out have ground to a halt, especially as orders started coming in for the holidays, and even though Dahlia has never made me feel badly about it, I know she misses the time we usually spend together. For the last couple of months, I’ve been so busy that she started going over to my apartment after she got off of work, just to walk Buttons for me .

“I get it,” she says sympathetically. “But you probably should have called them, Evie. That guy sounds dangerous.”

“Or he was just pulling a prank. Trying to scam me. Since I stood my ground, he’ll move on to his next target.”

“I think that sounds like wishful thinking.” Dahlia bites her lip. “My father has to deal with things like that, sometimes. People will try to extort him. Blackmail him?—”

“Your dad is in politics,” I point out. “I run a tiny bespoke clothing boutique. It’s not really the same thing at all.”

“What he’s talking about is real, though,” she insists. “Mafia, Bratva—those kinds of organizations exist. Some of the people my father deals with even take money from them. Some of them are even in politics. That man could have been telling the truth.”

“I’m not saying I don’t believe they exist, just that they wouldn’t bother with me.” I shake my head. “In the grand scheme of things going on in this city, I’m nothing. A speck?—”

“You’re not nothing.” Dahlia comes around the island, squeezing me around my waist as I pop another crostini into my mouth. “One day, your designs are going to be famous . Now,” she adds, plucking my almost-empty glass out of my hand. “Let’s get another drink in you, and get you out to the party. There’s this guy I really think you should meet?—”

Two hours later, I’m thoroughly buzzed and dancing to an upbeat pop remix of All I Want For Christmas with the man Dahlia wanted me to meet, whose name I’ve already forgotten. He’s shouting into my ear over the music about hedge fund management, and I’m grateful when I feel my cell phone buzz in the pocket of my skirt.

“I’ll be back!” I call out over the music, and retreat down the hall towards Dahlia’s bathroom. The number is one I don’t recognize, and I see that they’ve already called me twice. I must not have noticed it buzzing, too preoccupied with how to nicely let down the finance guy Dahlia introduced me to.

“Hello?” I close the door behind me as I answer the phone. I think I hear shouting in the background of whoever is calling, and I frown, leaning back against the door. “Who is this? ”

“Ms. Ashburn?”

“That’s me?” I frown. “I?—”

“This is Officer Perry, with the NYPD. You own the Pearls and Lace boutique?”

“I do—” My stomach tightens, thinking of my visitor earlier. “Has something happened?”

“I’m afraid so, ma’am. I need you to come down here and meet us immediately.”