Page 40 of Mafia Don's Twisted Proposal
Holy shit.
I look like me, but if I had a fairy godmother with an unlimited Sephora budget. The makeup highlights my cheekbones and makes my brown eyes look impossibly deep. My hair falls in perfect waves around my shoulders, half pinned back in some elegant style that probably has a fancy French name I can’t pronounce. Even my nails match my lipstick.
These women don’t mess around.
“The dress is hanging on the door,” Hair Stylist says while they pack up their arsenal of beauty weapons.
I’m currently wrapped in a silk robe, wearing the black lace thong and strapless bra Lorenzo specifically requested. Of course, I told him he wasn’t the boss of my underwear and stormed off in a huff. Because I’m not some dress-up doll he gets to play with.
Except I’m wearing exactly what he asked for.
In my defense, the man has excellent taste in lingerie. And it’s not like he’ll ever know I followed his orders unless I let him see what’s underneath this dress tonight.
Yeah, right. Like I have that kind of willpower.
The truth is, everything about this situation should terrify me. I’ve known Lorenzo for a week. A week. We’re doing this whole relationship thing completely backwards by getting married first, getting to know each other second. But when he comes home from his Don duties and asks me a million questions over dinner like he wants to memorize every detail about me, when he tells me his favorite food is carbonara and admits he hates country music...it doesn’t feel wrong.
It feels like the most natural thing in the world. And that’s what scares me most of all.
I close the bathroom door and unzip the garment bag, and my breath catches.
The dress is a work of art. Black silk with gold overlay that shimmers like liquid metal. It has a plunging V-neck and delicate straps that explain Lorenzo’s bra requirements.
I slip it on carefully, managing the side zipper myself. The fabric hugs every curve like it was sewn directly onto my body, falling to my ankles with a slit that goes dangerously high up my thigh.
I look like a woman who belongs at fancy parties. Like someone important.
It’s terrifying and thrilling all at once.
When I step out of the bathroom, the styling team has vanished and Lorenzo is waiting for me. He’s wearing a black tuxedo that should probably come with a warning label, because the way it fits his tall, lean frame is highly distracting. I’ve seen him in suits every day this week, but this is different. This is Lorenzo Andretti in his full glory: powerful, sophisticated, and dangerous enough to make my knees wobble.
His eyes slowly travel over me, and I feel that look everywhere. The intensity of his gaze makes my carefully applied foundation feel suddenly warm.
“You look stunning, Mrs. Andretti.”
I should correct him about the name thing, but honestly? Right now, it doesn’t feel wrong.
Instead, I walk toward him, enjoying the way his eyes darken with each step. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close, his hand sliding up to cup my cheek with surprising gentleness.
“I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” he says. “I can’t wait to show you off, Mia.”
There it is again, that weird hint that we have more history than a week of marriage. When I ask about comments like this, he always gives me some line about instant connections and soulmates. It’s romantic, sure, but it doesn’t quite add up.
“You clean up pretty well yourself,” I say, reaching up to straighten his already perfect tie. “Is the party ready?”
“Yes. You aren’t nervous, are you?”
I bite my lip, which probably smudges my lipstick. “Is it that obvious?”
He chuckles and brushes a soft kiss against my mouth. “They’re going to love you.”
“They’re going to see right through me. I’m a secretary from LA, Lorenzo. These people were probably born holding tiny guns and speaking Italian.”
His laugh is rich and warm, and immediately settles my nerves. “They’re not the boogeyman, baby. Don’t worry so much. As my wife, you’re already in a position of power. You don’t have to prove anything.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re the Don. I want them to like me.”
“Who wouldn’t like you?”
