Page 8 of Made Man

Did you block me?

Unblock me motherfucker

Wyatt

Wyatt

Wyatt

2

MIRA

“Ms. Volpe,”my driver says as he opens the door. I slide out, knees together like my mama taught me. The line to get into the club winds around the block, and I wouldn’t want to flash everyone my chocha.

Gianna and the guys exit the car after me. My date, Alex, tries to take his place by my side, but Gianna beats him to it, giggling as she winds her arm through mine. She’s already two glasses of champagne—and who knows what else—deep. It’s her birthday, after all. She can do what she wants to.

That’s why we’re here at Tonic, Pyle’s newest, hottest club. Even I’ve heard of it, and I never go out. It’s the week before Christmas, so the velvet rope has been strung with colored lights, and the bouncer is wearing a Santa hat.

I follow one of my bodyguards toward the head of the line. The bouncer has the rope unhooked before we get there.

“I love going out with you.” Gianna sighs. “It’s like you’re famous.”

The folks waiting to get in murmur, wondering who I am, and a few snap pictures with their phones. Good luck to them; my men are very good at blocking lines of sight.

The party people are destined for disappointment anyway. I’m no one. Just some rich girl. Take away the car and the bodyguards, the Balenciaga dress and the Hermes bag, and what would you have?

Not much.

I plaster a smile on my face. Gianna is one of the few friends from school that I have left. I’m only twenty-six, but most of the girls I hung out with at Saint Celestine’s are married with kids already.

It’s not unusual to settle down young in our circle, but I see women my age on social media who are dating and job hopping and self-diagnosing and changing their minds, and I wish I knew people like that. People who don’t already have everything they’ve always wanted.

Gianna has nothing figured out, and that’s ninety-nine percent of what I like about her. Her date for tonight, Nico, isn’t even on her roster. He’s a guy from the gym, and she’d never even talked to him until he asked for her number a few days ago. I don’t think she’s been home to her own condo since. I don’t blame her. He’s hot, even though he’s pale as a fish belly. He’s not an Italian Nico; he’s some other kind.

His friend, Alex, is hot, too. Sharp cheekbones and a sharp haircut. Talks too much. Asks a lot of questions. Not my type, but fine for an evening out.

“Are you actually going to try to have fun tonight?” Gianna stage-whispers as my bodyguard throws open the nondescript, windowless door and a wall of thumping bass hits us in the face.

I cup a hand around my ear, mouthI can’t hear you, and strut into the cold, clammy darkness.

I don’t have fun. I work. I have Sunday dinner with my parents. I go shopping with my mom. Every so often, I let Gianna drag me places so I don’t grow moss.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I was supposed to be the one bitching about never having time to myself and sharing recipes online for Chocolate Sin Cake and Better Than Sex Chicken and pictures of myself in ass-lifting yoga pants with the caption “keeping it tight for my man.”

Wyatt was supposed to be the man.

I curl my hands into fists and stride more briskly toward the VIP section, my bodyguard a few paces ahead, clearing the way. He’s a new guy—Morris? Mikey?

Dad usually has one of the people from his own team on my detail, but he took Mom to Santorini for their anniversary, and Marco is working for the organization now, so the guys Dad likes are on a Greek beach and the ones he doesn’t are babysitting my little brother.

Dad was freaking out in his very Dad-like way—which can get disturbing if you’re not used to it—but after I pointed out to him for the hundredth time that watching me hang out at home did not require advanced skills and training, he chilled out.

Tonight was kind of spontaneous. Gianna had been on me to come out, but I wasn’t going to until she called crying that Olivia canceled on her because her kids have hand, foot, and mouth disease, which is apparently something human children get.

That is the kind of thing I should know about. I should have gross little grubbers of my own with my very own annoying husband who drives me nuts with his weaponized incompetence and then makes me forget my own name with his huge cock. That’s what I was promised, what Ineverdoubted that I would have, not since Wyatt beat the snot out of all three Henderson boys when they messed with me on the playground.

Blame my overconfidence on my dad’s genes. He thinks the world is designed for his pleasure, too.

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