January Snow

  Hayden Wand

  January Snow

  Copyright © 2020 by Hayden Wand

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  For my brother Harrison,

  since he loves the story of Snow White so much.

  (haha, just kidding. He actually hates it.)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Hayden Wand

  Chapter 1

  January Snow had long ago decided that the public’s preference for alcohol was stemmed from two things: one, their own inability to face up to their problems; and two, to disguise the fact that without their liquid crutch, they would all be exposed as very tedious, very boring people.

  That was the only explanation that made any sense as she watched the scene unfold around her. It was glittering, glamorous, and fashionable. But to her sober mind, it was also very, very dull. If such wild parties were all the rage, it was only because without their forbidden alcohol people didn’t know what to do with themselves, January mused. Not that her pastimes were much better. But at least she did them with a clear mind. No, this setting was not her preferred place of relaxation, not anymore.

  And to think, she was risking her father’s wrath to attend.

  She shifted in her seat, wondering if Mahoney was ever going to arrive. She was taking a risk in using him. She couldn’t say that she trusted him, but she had placed her trust in him, for this particular task, and that was a different thing.

  She’d worn her best dress for the occasion—a glittering black frock with silver beading that glinted in the light. It was flattering and a personal favorite of hers, and furthermore, helped her blend in like she wanted. Her black hair was cut bluntly a quarter inch above her chin; when she’d shorn off her waist-length hair four years ago, it had been a bold move. Now it was only one head among thousands wearing the same style, the sign of rebellion fading into the typicality of the masses.

  January swirled the drink in her hands and sat up straighter, allowing herself to glance around again for the man she was looking for. Not seeing him, she slouched in her seat with a studied air of languid indifference and disinterest. In spite of this, she was still asked to dance.

  “No,” was all she said, not bothering with pleasantries. Sometimes it surprised her that she’d once enjoyed dancing so much. She supposed it was because that sort of dancing had scandalized her father, but rebellion for rebellion’s sake grew stale after a while.

  “What did that bartender ever do to you?”

  She glanced up at a man who had wandered over to her corner and now addressed her. She had noticed him earlier because of his good looks—blond hair, blue eyes, a real all-American type—but hadn’t paid him much mind after the first glance. She loosened her death grip on her glass and blinked, realizing that her glare had been focused on the man serving drinks. She hadn’t been surprised at the drinking, even with the prohibition laws. But she had been surprised at the gall of her hosts in serving their illegal beverage so openly. She supposed they were rich enough that it didn’t matter.

  “Nothing more than being in the sight of my perpetually disagreeable face.” She took a sip of her drink and looked back at her unwanted companion. She heard laughter and the flash of a camera in the background.

  “'Perpetually disagreeable?’” That seems a little harsh.”

  “Believe me, I’ve been told so more than once.” She kept her voice clipped and hoped he’d take the hint and leave her alone. She was feeling even more peevish than normal, and she knew, deep down, it was because she was nervous about her meeting with Mahoney, and that made her angry at herself—and therefore angry at anyone who interrupted her brooding.

  “Is that a warning or a wall?”

  She glanced at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean, are you shutting me down, or warning me of what I’m getting into?”

  January looked him over. “I certainly didn’t come here to be flirted at by a drugstore cowboy, so you decide.”

  “Hint taken.” He raised his eyebrows, good humor unshaken, and left her alone.

  She watched him walk away and shook her head. “Jan Snow hasn’t a heart,” Sean Callaghan used to say, as if it was a great joke. It had pleased her then. Now it felt rather empty.

  “Miss Esposito.” A hand touched her shoulder and she cursed her inattentive mind. She should have noticed his presence before then.

  “Mahoney,” she said, acknowledging the lanky Irishman as she stood. “You know I don’t use that name in public.”

  “Sorry.” He smiled. “Miss Snow, of course. Not enjoying yourself? And here I thought you’d be the life of the party, not hiding in a corner like a canceled stamp.”

  “I don’t like the noise.”

  “That’s not what Sean Callaghan said.”

  January’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t come here to socialize.”

  He extended a hand and she took it as he led her to the dance floor. She gritted her teeth but followed. The band was playing more slowly now, not a waltz, but something to give the younger set an excuse to plaster themselves against members of the opposite sex. January hated the feel of Mahoney next to her, hated the crush of the dance floor. But the close proximity gave them the excuse they needed.

  “Tell me you have the information I need, Mahoney,” she whispered in his ear.

  “Callaghan will be gone at ten o’clock Monday, p.m. Has a meeting with an unknown associate. He won’t be back until at least two.” His voice was equally quiet, that of a man who’d given his share of clandestine secrets.

  January nodded. “Our way in?”

  “I’ll let you in in the back. The house should be asleep, except for the guards, who will be drugged. You’ll have a clear shot to his office, where he’ll be to drop off the papers from his meeting.”

  Mahoney’s hand slid and touched her bare back, and she resisted the urge to pin his toes beneath her heel. She needed his help, much as she hated it.

  “Good. I’ll be there at one,” she said.

  He leaned in, as if to take advantage of their closeness and steal a kiss. She slid her hand over his mouth and pushed him back.

  “Bank’s closed, Mahoney.”

  He raised a brow and shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”

  She released her hold on his shoulder and let him lead her back to the piazza where she took a sandwich from the buffet table and began to walk to her car, the fringe of her dress tickling her legs with every step. She almost sighed with relief when she saw her family’s chauffeur waiting by the car.


  “Ready to leave already, Miss Snow?” he asked.

  “I was ready to leave three hours ago.”

  “But we only arrived two hours ago.”

  “Exactly.”

  He opened the door and she slid into the back seat. Chase had only been working for her family a number of months. With his light coloring, he stuck out like a sore thumb among the Italians of the Esposito household. She’d always had the impression of him as a confused bird who’d suddenly found himself surviving in a congregation of alligators.

  He looked nervous now, and she wondered if it was for her sake or his.

  “Your father is going to be furious, Miss Snow.”

  “I think I know my father better than you, Chase.”

  She saw his frown in the rearview mirror, but he didn’t say anything else, so the ride back to the Esposito family brownstone was silent. She ran her tongue over her teeth and readied herself. Her father would be furious. But she had prepared herself for that. She’d never earn his love, but if her plan succeeded, she might earn his respect, which she told herself was even better.

  They pulled up to the home her family resided in. It was beautiful, but typical enough of the area not to draw too much attention. Inside was a different story. Her father and stepmother’s expensive taste was one of the few things January had in common with them.

  “Miss Snow…”

  “I see them.” As Chase stopped the car, she let herself out, her mesh handbag banging against her knee as she stepped onto the pavement. Police cars lined the drive. For a moment she thought about fleeing, but it wasn’t in her nature. She straightened her posture and marched to the front door. If her father had gotten arrested, she would show him that nothing would faze her. She could carry on in his absence.

  The first person she saw when she entered the room was her stepmother. Maria’s hair was frizzed around her face, and January could imagine her stripping the curlers from her hair as she ran down the hall to answer the door in her nightgown and negligee. She was seated in a chair, wailing as she held a handkerchief to her face. A policeman stood to the side, his face grim.

  At January’s entrance, Maria looked up and Jan could see that her eyes were red.

  “Oh January!” Maria said, sounding almost affectionate. “Darling, it’s your father! He’s…”

  January didn’t need her to finish.

  He’s dead.

  Chapter 2

  I should have done it sooner.

  The night that January had planned to assassinate her father’s rival was, instead, spent staring at her ceiling as she lay on the bed, wondering if the rain falling outside would ever stop.

  If she hadn’t been so slow to act, so reluctant to step outside her father’s boundaries, he might still be alive. They didn’t know who’d shot her father—at least, that’s what the police said. But she knew. The Callaghans had been their enemies long enough. She’d always known her father lived with danger—one didn’t get to be the don of one of New York’s most ruthless crime families without making enemies—but if she’d only killed Jimmy Callaghan sooner…

  She heard her stepmother’s muffled crying from the parlor. January was supposed to be down there now, greeting her father’s associates as they came to pay their respects. January didn’t want to see them. She’d loved her father with an imperfect, faulty kind of love, and now she wasn’t sure what she felt. Even if he’d been disappointed by the way she’d turned out—arrogant, difficult, and far too independent—she had fond memories of her childhood, back when her mother was alive and her life approached something considered normalcy.

  Shouldn’t she cry? Shouldn’t she want to cry?

  January Snow doesn’t have a heart.

  Jan hadn’t grown up the way her father thought a good girl should have. Feminine, naïve, innocent, submissive—everything that a traditional mob boss would have expected in his daughter. Instead, January had taken more of an interest in the truth of her father’s operations than letting herself believe his lies about being a simple businessman. She’d run away from boarding school twice, which hadn’t won her any favors with the headmistress, and then once from home when her father tried private tutoring.

  Even now, she hadn’t known what she was searching for.

  Revenge. It was a thought, one that had been rubbing against her consciousness like a pebble in a shoe. Her father hadn’t been able to take down the Callaghans, but she could. She’d never be able to take over the business, at least not yet, but if she made herself indispensable enough, proved her worth…

  She shook away her thoughts and left her bedroom to greet their guests. She couldn’t be weak now. Not when her future depended upon it. She was tired of the nihilism, the nothingness that had been driving her life.

  Driving? No—she’d been treading water, going nowhere. But if she had a goal, like killing Jimmy Callaghan and taking control of the business, then there’d be a meaning to something she was doing.

  And if the thought occurred that once she achieved that goal there might not be anything left afterward, well, that wasn’t something she needed to dwell on now.

  * * *

  Mrs. Lorenzo Esposito, who had once been Maria d’Angelo, gave a teary smile as Salvatore Rossi kissed both her cheeks in sympathy. She knew he was expecting to take over from her husband, and she would have to address that at a later date. At the moment, her only role was to play the part of the grieving widow.

  Though that was no act.

  At any rate, she certainly felt Lorenzo’s death more than his daughter did. Her face was that same expressionless mask that she’d always worn to keep Maria out. As Sal moved on to speak with January, Maria searched that face for a sight of the man that she’d loved, but her stepdaughter had inherited few of her father’s features, except for his dark eyes. Maria had loved those eyes in Lorenzo, but she hated them in January.

  “You poor dear!” Lorenzo’s plump, chatty aunt clucked to Maria in Italian.

  “Zia Lucia,” Maria rested her head on her shoulder, letting the tears swim in her eyes as the old woman hugged her.

  “You are too young to be a widow, cara.” Zia Lucia held Maria’s face in her hands and kissed the top of her head. “Too young for such a burden. If you need anything—”

  “I’ll call for you,” Maria finished, dabbing under her eyes with her damp handkerchief. Lucia’s words bolstered her. It was not only the love and respect for Lorenzo, but the love for Maria as well.

  How Maria loved being liked.

  Yet the hours still seemed to stretch as the wake lingered on. It wasn’t until late that the last of the guests left—most of them shooed out by Lucia, who told them Maria needed her rest—and Maria found she could retreat to her room for some peace and quiet, and the sound of nothing but her own breathing.

  Maria had always liked being around people. She liked parties and laughter, and the admiring looks she received as she played hostess. But not today. Not when her husband was dead and the empire he’d created was suddenly pushed into jeopardy. She opened her eyes and looked around the room. It was her personal sitting room, one that led off of the bedroom she had shared with her husband. It was a perfect recreation of the room she’d first met Lorenzo in. He’d come to see her, desperate for an opportunity to speak with his dead wife. Perhaps that was not the most romantic of situations, but he’d later come to see it as a last gift from his first love: a chance to find happiness again. Maria had smiled when he’d said that, vocally agreeing but feeling like she had to compete with a woman from the grave. Perhaps that’s why she’d finally told Lorenzo that his wife was in peace now, her soul at rest and unwilling to communicate with him anymore. He’d believed her, and she’d almost believed it herself.

  She turned off the lights except for some candles she kept for her purpose and sat down at the small round table. She turned her hand mirror before her and for a moment she saw her face reflected back at her. She didn’t remember the last time she’d looked so dra
wn, so old. She was barely thirty-six, but she felt ancient.

  But she wasn’t there to think about herself. She pulled herself more closely to the table and laid her arms out in front of her, one on each side of the mirror, palms up.

  “Lorenzo?” she said quietly, closing her eyes. “Are you there?” The room was cold and the house silent. Everyone would have been asleep by now. She waited. “Lorenzo?”

  Nothing happened, and she wondered if he’d found his first love, his Bianca, and forgotten all about her. But a moment later, she felt a chill run up her spine and knew that he was there. She felt cold breath blow on her neck, and her back arched in reaction. For a moment, she thought she felt her husband’s hand touch it.

  Her palms grew warm and Maria opened her eyes and looked down at the mirror before her. Its edges were glowing, just as they did whenever a message was about to appear. The mirror clouded and then, as if small fingers rubbed themselves against the glass, a word appeared in the fog.

  Here.

  Maria smiled and closed her eyes momentarily, a sigh escaping her lips. “Tesoro, I’m here. I’m here, too.”

  The mirror grew hot. “Lorenzo?” she yelped and dropped the mirror. It landed on the table with a clang. She felt cold all over. In all her years exploring the spirit realm, that had never happened.

  “You’re angry,” she whispered. “Of course.” He’d been murdered, a shot in the heart. She’d dealt with murdered spirits before, but none so closely connected to her as Lorenzo. “Was it the Callaghans?”

  The mirrors edges grew warm with heat, burning the wooden table beneath it with a dark ring.

  “But how, Lorenzo? How did they know where you would be? Who told them? Who is responsible?” The mirror cooled and for the moment Maria sat alone in quiet darkness. Slowly, fog began spread from the edges of the mirror to its center. She leaned closer as words slowly etched themselves into the fog.

  January, the mirror answered. January.

  * * *

  “I asked him, Maroni. I asked him and he said it was January.”