Page 48 of Mafia Boss's Fake Wife

And, by the time that we’ve gone through the whole room, I am well and truly drunk.

Stassi, normal, bubbly Stassi, is back. She’s hilarious, and I collapse back at her latest joke, melting into the puddle of lace and stiff tulle that comprises the princess-style dress I have on.

“Stop,” I breathe, struggling to keep my champagne glass upright as I fight my way out of the fabric puddling around me. “There’s no way that you were there the night that Megan met Harry.”

She winks, her cheeks flush with champagne. “Who do you think told her to go for it?”

“The news always reported they met through friends,” I giggle.

Stassi smiles. “Am I not a friend?”

I have no doubt that Stassi is the best friend in the world.

“Far be it from me to interject,” I hear my brother’s voice ring into the room.

Stassi giggles. “He won’t come in. He’s terrified.”

“What, Liam?” I yell.

“Perhaps you’d like to eat something?” Liam says.

I roll my eyes, looking at Stassi. “Should I tell him to fuck off?” I whisper.

She wrinkles her nose. “Oh, we’ve probably made them suffer for long enough, right?”

My stomach grumbles, and I sigh. “I could eat.”

“Coming, darling,” Stassi trills.

I prop myself up so that I can see the doorway. Liam’s face peers in, and sure enough, he toes the threshold but refuses to cross it.

Big baby.

Stassi sails out, dressed in only her silky robe. I watch her go, then sigh.

I should probably try to get up.

The dress, however, is a problem. There’s just somuchof it. And, I need to manage to get up without spilling any of that champagne that’s making my head spin. I eye the floor, then my hand, then make one attempt.

Shit.

Attempt number two is almost successful. I’m partly standing when I almost lose my balance again. The vision of the champagne flying through the air and staining the perfectly pristine white dress enters my mind, and I squeak as I wait…

Then, strong hands cross my middle.

“Need a hand?” Marco says, his voice thick.

I blink.

Marco is behind me, slowly propping me up. I let him, feeling his hands at my waist like a burning brand.

By the time I’m standing, my face feels hot, and I bring myself to look in the mirror in front of us.

“This is… a lot,” Marco rumbles.

My gaze snaps to his. “I’m allowed to wear dresses,” I blurt.

Marco’s eyes pull away from mine in the mirror. The heat that’s blistering my cheeks spreads as his eyes slip down, over my neck and shoulders. This dress is a true princess-style dress, with a fitted strapless bodice and a skirt that puffs out for miles in any direction.

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