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the
thought of them away. “Anything but the Byzans. I’m officially off
the clock and out of their reach until I’m back at the desk.”
    “You know, the father isn’t so bad,” Deni
said as we crossed 54th Street, our conversation temporarily
swallowed by the crowds spilling from the stairs of the nearby
subway station and into the street.
    We walked in silence, slowing our pace,
allowing the rushing strangers to move ahead, grateful for the
relative quiet as they darted past.
    “But the daughter?” I then said.
    “Mara --”
    “Yes,” I interrupted. “The Byzan, as she
calls herself.”
    Deni lightly laughed.
    “New money, dear,” she said. “Desperate to
make their mark and doing it in all the wrong ways, stepping on
important toes left, right, and center.
    “They applied for an apartment in my
building,” she then said.
    “Really?”
    She nodded.
    Deni’s building on Park Avenue at 71st Street
was, literally, home to more billionaires than any other building
probably anywhere in the world. Getting past that co-op board was a
feat in and of itself.
    It’d be easier climbing Mt. Everest. In Jimmy
Choos. With broken arms. Blindfolded. And no sherpa.
    That there was even an apartment available
was news. That the Byzan’s had the guts to try and snag it was
something else entirely.
    “I take it their application was denied?” I
asked.
    Another nod.
    “They’re chin-deep in debt, Ronan,” Deni
said. “And they were late -- well, she was, at least -- to their
interview.”
    I stopped.
    “Wow,” I said.
    She stopped as well, turning to me.
    “The Byzan strode in without her father
twenty minutes late,” she continued. “No apology, no explanation.
No anything.
    “And then she proceeded to be the little
bitch that she is,” she then said. “Needless to say, it was the
quickest interview in our building’s history.”
    “I’m handling their Estate, their tax
planning, and had no idea, no idea, they were planning on buying
more property in the States,” I said. “Don’t they realize that kind
of changes, like, everything when it comes to, well, everything I
do?”
    “Does Mikalo know the Byzan’s are in town?”
Deni asked, ignoring me.
    “I don’t know. Why would he?”
    “Rich family from Europe,” she said. “Rich
family from Greece. Ages not too far apart. Both fathers
ambitious.
    “Don’t you think it’s possible he and The
Byzan might know each other?”
    “Oh please,” I said, turning my head away.
“As if my Mikalo would know someone as annoying and callous and,
and, and --”
    “Crude?” Deni offered, interrupting.
    “Yes, thank you -- someone as crude as Mara
Byzan, it’s just, it’s just, just --”
    “Impossible?”
    “Right!” I said. “Yes. It’s impossible.
    “I mean, please.”
    We walked in silence for a few moments.
    “You know it’s quite possible, right?” she
then said.
    I didn’t know what to say.
    Of course it was possible. Totally
possible.
    But, still, Mikalo with that horrible
woman?
    The thought turned my stomach.
    “Looks like this is going to be an
interesting lunch,” she said as we turned and headed through the
doors of the restaurant.
    “Don’t worry,” she then said, glancing over
her shoulder. “Drinks are on me.”
     
     
     

Chapter Ten
     
    “Dump him,” she said with a toss of her
blonde curls.
    “What?”
    “No, seriously,” Deni continued, her voice
slicing through the expensive buzz of well-heeled conversation
surrounding us. “You have all these doubts and worries. So, yeah,
cut him loose.
    “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding
someone as fantastic as Mikalo. You know, gorgeous, rich. Someone
who obviously loves you as much as he does --”
    “Okay, okay --” I said, regretting bringing
up my earlier doubts and thoughts and silly complaints.
    But this Mara Byzan angle. This new info. It
was throwing me.
    The thought of it made me sick to my
stomach.
    I took a healthy swallow of my drink.
    “Do you