The snow goes to sleet by the time Richard releases me into the wild. He throws one last look at my imperfectly-fitted jeans and sighs. I run for it.
Outsides, the clumps of wet snow smudge my glasses, but I trudge diligently toward the Rockefeller Center. Back when I had a Bureau career, and for the four glorious years afterward, when I existed by a largess of a bestselling author, I used to travel for business. My rule during these trips was to do as many tourist attractions as possible. Otherwise, travel doesn't feel like travel, and Seoul is the same as London.
So I walk through New York, re-familiarizing myself with its beat, ignoring snow. I'm not Naz to wrap in furs over three drips of frozen water. I straighten my shoulders and turn my face into the wind. I'm the man!
Yeah.
The wailing of an emergency siren bounces from the skyscrapers. My gaze swivels, noticing cover, vantage points and anything out of place. Old habits die hard.
A cop shouts at a construction crew setting up orange cones. Slouching tourists march closer to me in comforting solidarity. Most of them have the same goal in mind—that big-ass Christmas tree by the Rockefeller Center—because it's too early to look for a sandwich. Eighty percent of them tote coffee. The smell of it drives my taste buds wild.
Who am I to fight peer pressure?
I dive inside the nearest Starbucks and emerge with an espresso of my own. The shit tastes bitter, but its heavenly aroma is so mighty, it melts the snow before it assaults my skin.
Between sipping coffee and wincing at its bitterness, I arrive at my destination.
The sacrificial fir tree is where it's supposed to be. It's decked out in tinsel and LED. No surprises. I'm good for another decade or two.
A trio of girls, about the same age as my niece would have been now, chirp about their New Year's Eve plan next to me. Seeing the ball drop, the kissing and all that jazz. Oh, what a night! What a night it's going to be! their pink cheeks advertise, as their squealing pitches higher and higher.
On the first night of the new year, I'll be a married man, ringing in 2019 with the very people I despise the most in the world.
The scum and villainy who sell drugs to innocent girls just like those gigglers next to me; so similar to my niece, Liz. These people kill without discretion when someone gets in the way, and they'll chink their flutes of Champagne with me on New Year's Eve.
If the New year's Eve one night indeed foreshadows the year to come, my 2019 will be dreadful.
I scowl at the girls, getting the hey, what's your problem? looks in return. For teens, it's always your fault. And in Liz's case, it was spot on. Her death was my fault.
The tree loses its charm, but I can't stand the thought of hailing a cab. Sniffing the overheated car interior after being locked inside Armani—fuck, no. I've had it with its faux ocean breeze, artificial pine and pretend nutmeg. I'd much rather have the car exhaust, wet stone and stale coffee smell of New York plugging my nose.
So, I stuff my hands deeper in my pockets and walk back to the Plaza.
As the sleet soaks through the worn out collar of my jacket, visions of a hot shower and a steaming bowl of noodles repeatedly replace each other in my mind. Glorious, glorious stuff. That's everything a man needs to be happy.
Screw Christmas anyway and New Year with it. Screw New York. Screw Naz.
When I return to the hotel, I drop the soggy jacket on the floor, peel the shirt off as I step over the threshold of the bathroom. A giant box rests on the marble counter. Some sales person's hand wrapped the monstrosity into candy-cane-adorned paper with professional neatness. I rip the foil and the bows off... Shaving products. A brief-case-sized box of fucking shaving products. Bulgari.
YOU ARE READING
Raised by the Mafia
Ciencia Ficción||L.A. Lawless Serial|| ||Season 2|| What do mafia princess and an ex-FBI agent have in common? An enemy. What should they do about it? Fake-marry, of course, and rub it into his face. What could possibly go wrong...or right? Right.
