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After washing my hands, so they no longer smell like shrimp, I do my best to repair my makeup without any on hand and put up my wavy black hair in a French twist, securing it with the only thing I have on my person, a Bic pen from my back pocket.

Okay, I can do this. I exit the restroom, but before I execute my plan, I text my friends that I'm about to do something crazy. It's important that they don't interfere. I get "???" in response. I'll worry about that later.

I march up to the table where my boss is getting cozy with that Russian assassin who looks like an ugly Jessica Chastain and tap Vincenzo San Giovanni's upper back.

When he turns around to face me, I unload on him before I lose my nerve and accuse him of infidelity, then burst into tears. To his credit, he doesn't call me a crazy person and scream for security or his bodyguards to take me away.

Instead, he turns to the red-haired Russian assassin and apologizes, playing along with my every word by confessing it as truth.

She calls him a pig and throws his own drink in his face before storming away like a diva.

I can feel the eyes of my friends and the rest of the restaurant patrons on my back, but I've committed to this act of shenanigans. I must follow through.

I sit in front of the boss and drink what’s left of his cocktail after the harridan showered him with it.

I told him I was only trying to save his life because I could swear on a stack of Bibles that I've seen the woman before and spew off something about her being featured on America's Deadliest Women. Again, to his credit, he doesn't call for his bodyguards when I know he has four hanging around at any given time.

He tells me I need to walk him up to his suite on the 69th floor (naturally) because he's too drunk to walk on his own and throws in something about firing me as if he actually would follow through on nothing more than a reputation-fueled-fear-driven threat.

This bastard was no closer to being drunk than he was to firing me. He's trying to get me alone so he can execute me Mafia-style. I bet he knows how to use a garrote.

He pulls me up from the table and puts his hand at the base of my spine. I feel its heat even through the cotton and poly-knit fabric of the blouse I bought from Forever 21 three years ago. We pass by my friends who gaze at me wide-eyed, but I pretend I don't see them as the bossman pushes me closer to certain death.

At least if I get found in the LA River two days from now, these hags can tell the police that they last saw me with Vincenzo San Giovanni, Mafia Prince. Not that any of it would make a difference because his family probably owns the cops. And he'd probably want to tie off any loose ends, so he'd have to get rid of Marybeth and Darlene, too. Possibly Manolo. I hope he spares Marybeth for the sake of Eddie and their crotch fruits.

The boss leads me to a bank of elevators where a nice old man in a security guard's outfit smiles and greets us with a good evening. He looks like a character from Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. Like Mr. McFeely's brother or something.

"Good evening, Larry," says the bossman in his posh British accent. "How are the wife and kids?"

"They're doing wonderfully, Mr. San Giovanni. Thank you for asking." He looks at me with a curious glint in his eyes.

"Oh, this is Mrs. San Giovanni, Larry," he says, tapping my back.

I swallow hard and give my boss a sidelong glance. What is he up to? He must not be planning to kill me because he's involving unnecessary witnesses and introducing me as his wife. Unless this is a part of one big elaborate plan to kill me, I guess.

“I hadn’t heard that you’d gotten married, sir,” says the old man cheerfully. “Congratulations. Hello, Signorina. You are very beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I mumble, unable to meet the old man’s eyes.

“Whirlwind romances, Larry, they still exist.” Bossman throws his arm around my shoulders and squeezes me to his side. “Well, we just finished dinner and had a bit too much to drink, so we’re gonna be staying in our resident suite.”

“Ah.” The old man bows and presses the elevator button for UP. “Well, congratulations again, Mr. San Giovanni. I bet your family is very pleased.”

“Yes, Larry, thank you. Good night.” He shoves me into the next elevator that opens up and presses 69 on the panel before the doors close, sealing my fate.

“Will you relax?” The boss lightly punches my upper arm. “You ruined my date, but I won’t let you ruin my night, so you’re gonna hang out with me, and we’re gonna drink.”

I try to scoot away from him sideways like a crab, but he pulls me back to his hard body and buries his face in my hair. “Sir, my people don’t handle liquor very well, so I’m not really the best drinking buddy. I’m sure you have a whole virtual black book in your phone of beautiful women you can call for a good time.”

His brows furrow in confusion. “Who are your people?”

“Umm… half Korean on my father’s side and Scandinavian-Irish on my mother’s.”

“You’ll be fine. The Scandinavian-Irish can drink like a fish. Trust me, I lived in the UK for almost twenty years.” He slaps my back. “Besides, I don’t want to call any of the women in my ‘virtual black book.’ I have you already, don’t I? With you, I won’t have to work hard.”

I stumble, but he catches me before I smack face-first into the doors. “Sir, I really don’t think this is a good idea. We have a good working relationship, don’t we? We don’t want to ruin that.”

He scratches the side of his head. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Ms. Lee, but weren’t you the one who interrupted my date, screeching like a banshee and accusing me of adultery as well as abandonment of our two children under the age of five?”


Tags: Sophia March Billionaire Romance