Page 12 of Sinful Mafia Santa

The crone points to a sign with one scarlet talon. “Nine a.m. to midnight,” she says, like I’m too stupid to read.

I reach for my wallet. “You can make an exception.”

The witch’s lips twist like she’s sucking on a lemon. She reaches around the corner of the hut and yanks on some lever I can’t see. The rink plummets into darkness.

I take five crisp hundreds out of my wallet. “No one has to know,” I say.

She cackles. “You’re in the middle of New York City, pal. I let you in, I have to let everyone in.”

I add another five bills. “Wait inside the hut,” I say. “With the chain across the door. Anyone else who comes to skate will give up and go home.”

“And what if my boss shows up? What if he fires me for breaking the rules?”

“If he fires you, I’ll give you a new job.”

“Doing what?”

“Managing petty cash in my real estate office.” I figure if she’s fighting a bribe this hard, she’d be great at keeping a lockbox safe from employees looking to boost a couple of bucks.

She twists her neck like a bird eyeing an especially fat worm. Jutting her chin toward the money in my hand, she says, “Add another ten to that, and you have yourself a deal.”

I count out the cash from my wallet. I’m short two hundred bucks. “That’s it,” I say. “I’m tapped out.”

She eyes my overcoat. “You got a pair of gloves?”

I dig out a pair of hand-stitched Italian lambskin gloves. They’re lined with brown rabbit fur. I hand them over to her, cuffs first.

“Fifteen minutes,” she says.

“After we put on our skates.”

She looks at both of us, head to toe. “Looks like the two of you forgot to bring your gear.”

I point to the sign, the same one that lists the hours. “Rental skates included,” I say. “We’ll skip the complimentary hot chocolate.”

The woman harrumphs, but she slips the chain from its anchors. “Men’s on the left,” she says. “Women’s on the right.”

I pass her the eighteen hundred bucks before I usher Aeryn over the threshold.

“Are you crazy?” Aeryn asks as the door creaks closed behind us. Bare light bulbs illuminate the racks of skates.

I grin and shake my head. “I just like getting my way. Go on. Get your skates. I don’t trust her not to start the clock before you’re out on the ice.”

Aeryn looks at me like I’ve just landed my fourth concussion, but then she shakes her head and moves down the aisle. I stare at her back until she’s out of sight.

Standing by the cash register, I think about some of the stories Logan told me about the Reardon family business. Their father, Mickey, likes getting his way too. But he uses a gun to persuade people, instead of a gaping wallet.

Not for the first time, I speculate on my good luck that Mickey Reardon never held me accountable for what happened to Logan. I suspect he never learned the truth about Aeryn and me, or I would have ended up with a bullet at the base of my skull well before I ever got to open Kynk.

Aeryn comes down the aisle, clutching a pair of white leather skates. “Size nine,” she says. “Now it’s your turn to hurry.” She nods toward the men’s side of the hut.

I shake my head. “No skates for me.”

“But—”

“Let’s go,” I say, opening the door before she can argue.

The old woman is wiping down the tables, grumbling over a sticky spill of once-hot chocolate. I guide Aeryn to a smoothplastic bench, holding out my hands for her fancy stiletto heels. “You’re going to rip those stockings,” I say.