Page 14 of Sinful Mafia Santa

There’s no reason to abandon the plan I built so carefully when I planned this trip from Chicago. Sure, it’s Sunday morning, and brunch is a notorious dead-zone for serious chefs. Too many customers want bottomless mimosas with cheap, greasy food to soak up the alcohol. Even the best menus are forced to balance heavy breakfasts with light lunches.

But dim sum is a different thing altogether. Aunt Li is a massive restaurant in Chinatown, taking up three stories of an ancient building on Mott Street. The place is famous for its dumplings, pork sticky rice, and custard tarts. It’s as different as possible from the hearty Irish fare I’ve eaten all my life. I grab the leather-bound notebook I use to take notes and head downstairs for a cab.

Steamed sausage rolls. Shrimp dumplings. Fried turnip cake. I sample all of those, and more. The Chinese family at the round table next to me sees me studying their choices, and they send over the more adventurous dishes: Stewed chicken feet. Steamed beef tripe. Glutinous rice dumplings.

I’m in heaven.

I eat until I can’t manage another bite. When the waiter brings my bill, I put down my platinum American Express card, telling him I’m picking up the tab for my new Chinese friends. I leave before they discover my little Christmas present.

That’s what it means to be a Reardon, an Irish mob princess. I can take care of the people around me. Da’s a millionaire many times over, and he takes pride in providing forhis family—all of us, even me, the only girl. I’m thirty-one years old, and I already have a million dollars in my savings account.

Of course that’s nothing compared to Gage Rider’s billions. If I live to be 80, I’ll have fifty-six dollars a day to spend, every day of my life. If I had Gage’s money, I’d have twenty-three hundred dollars anhour.

So, yeah. The eighteen hundred he gave that woman for me to skate last night was pocket change.

I dig my fingernails into my palms. I don’t want to think about skating. I don’t want to remember the wind in my hair, the thrill of spinning at center ice almost out of control, the hunger I saw in Gage’s eyes when I came back to the bench—Iknowit was there.

Okay, Rider. What do we do now?

I’m a feckin’ eejit.

I yank the belt tight on my coat, slip my notebook into my pocket, and head out of Aunt Li’s. I don’t have another reservation until eight tonight, at Dancing Beet, a vegetarian restaurant on the Upper West Side that’s been getting rave reviews.

I could take a cab back to the Waldorf, but I already know I’d just sit in my room and mope. Instead, I decide to walk up Broadway.

I’m wearing Doc Martens, in deference to last night’s snow. The laces are tight around my ankles, almost as tight as my skates were last night.

Don’t think about skates.

Many of the storefronts I pass are decorated for Christmas. Gold and silver garlands line windows, and colored holiday lights flash around doors. Chinatown gives way to the Bowery, which fades into Greenwich Village.

For a few blocks, I trail behind a quartet of drunken Santa Clauses. Through the window of a coffee shop, I glimpse a grown-up Grinch handing a cup of hot chocolate to a very little Cindy Lou Who. I’m earwormed with Christmas carols—“ISaw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” and dogs barking “Jingle Bells” and four feckin’ repeats of “Last Christmas”.

When my legs get tired, I take a break in a Yemeni coffee shop. They have a fake fireplace against one wall, with stockings hung across the mantel. I think about the silk stockings I rolled down my thighs once I got back to the hotel last night. Just as Gage predicted, the silk was shredded by my skates.

Don’t think about stockings.

Fortified by caffeine, I make my way past the Flatiron Building, heading to midtown. I’ve covered a couple of miles; I’m halfway to Dancing Beet. My toes are cold and my cheeks feel flushed, but for the first time in two days, I’m back in control of my life.

I never should have gone to Kynk with Will. Once I was there, I never should have let Gage order me that Jameson. Once I drank the whiskey, I never should have agreed to a tour of the club. Once I let Gage show me around, I never should have accepted his invitation to meet the Diamond Ring.

There were so many times I could have stepped aside. So many ways I could have taken back my independence. So many chances to remember that I’m Aeryn Reardon, I belong in Chicago, and I have nothing but bad memories from the time I lived in New York City.

But Gage’s hands were gentle when he helped me into his massive Rivian. His voice was kind as he told his driver to take me to the Waldorf. His eyes were sad as he softly closed the vehicle’s door.

Don’t think about Gage.

I’m early for my dinner reservation, but there are seats at the bar. I order whiskey but change my mind before the bartender can grab a glass. I ask for a vodka martini instead, extra dirty. It comes with four olives on a silver pick.

Dancing Beet lives up to its reputation. I order all eight appetizers on the menu, just so I can study the chef’s technique. It takes me almost fifteen minutes to identify the flavor foldedinto my smoked rutabaga carpaccio. It turns out to be minced sea beans.

I take notes. I savor a late-harvest Tokaji instead of dessert. I assure the server I loved the meal, even though I decline to take any of my leftovers back to my hotel.

Back in my suite, I’m forced to stare at the cashmere sweater I wore to Radio City. The skirt, too. They’re my favorite winter clothes, and now I want to burn them. They’re tainted, ruined by Gage’s touch at the small of my back, by his palm on my elbow, by the way he?—

Do not think abut Gage Feckin’ Rider.

I should be knackered after my long walk. I should be studying my notes for tomorrow’s restaurants. I should be packing my clothes, getting a head start on my early-Tuesday-morning departure.