Page 24 of Marrying the Mobster
“When can I check in on my boutique?” I call after him. “When will you give me back my books and my yoga mat? I’m dying of boredom while you’re out terrorizing Miami all day.”
He smirks and shrugs one shoulder. “You’ll get your things back when I decide you’ve earned them. Impress me tonight, and we’ll talk.”
I have no choice but to accept this bizarre task and mull over what it means while I have my breakfast. Is Diego really so arrogant that he’d risk taking me out in public? By now I’m desperate enough to throw open the door of whatever car we’re taking, then tuck and roll.
Mariana lays my breakfast tray across my lap, and while I eat the beauty team gathers around to inspect me. It’s hard to enjoy my eggs while my hair is being unwound from its topknot, my hands and nails inspected, and the covers flipped back to expose my bare legs.
“Someone needs a wax,” declares the guy with the man-bun.
My face flushes at the dark fuzz showing on my calves. A razor is one luxury I haven’t been afforded, and after I stabbed a man with a nail file I don’t dare ask for one.
“And a mani-pedi,” the woman says, shaking her head at the state of my toenails.
I nearly choke on a bite of toast when the blond man grabs my chin and tilts my face for inspection. “Such beautiful eyes and sexy lips. Oh yeah … I’m going to have fun making up this face.”
There isn’t much I can say to that, so I rush through breakfast and let them yank me from the bed to start their work. The rest of the morning and afternoon are spent being treated like a doll. First comes the waxing, which leaves me sore and grumpy. Then, the manicure and pedicure, which makes me feel a little better. The woman and the man with the bun tag-team my hair—washing and styling it, and then the blond gets me all to himself for makeup—complete with false lashes and a smoky eye.
“Do any of you have a phone?” I ask at one point.
All three of the stylists exchange glances and look away from me with shuttered eyes.
“Our phones were confiscated at the door,” the blond man replies. “Sorry, honey. It’s typical for you VIP types.”
It occurs to me to admit I’m a prisoner and ask them to send help once they’re off the island. But that will only endanger these people. If Diego would kill me because I witnessed what happened between him and my father, surely he’ll kill these three. I’m not self-absorbed enough to risk it.
I remain passive and let them finish grooming me. Rifling through my closet, they agree the white cocktail dress and matching white and gold shoes are the best choice for my wardrobe.
By the time Marcella appears in my room around six-thirty, I’m nothing like the bedraggled woman who woke up in her captor’s bed this morning. My hair has been smoothed into soft waves, loose and hanging over one shoulder. My makeup is stunning, and while I don’t usually wear false lashes, I have to admit they make the eye makeup look more dramatic. My lips are a shimmering nude shade and light contouring makes me look sharper, fiercer. The white dress hugs my body, dipping low in both the front and the back.
My team packs their things, giving me nods of approval as they leave.
“Holy shit, you look hot!” Marcella blurts when she sees me.
I laugh and sweep a hand at her. She looks like a bombshell in a hot pink dress. “You’re not too shabby yourself. I didn’t know you were going to this thing, too.”
Marcella rolls her eyes. “When it comes to these events, I don’t have a choice. Family is very important to mafia men—the Russians most of all.”
“Russians?” I ask, my stomach twisting.
Marcella huffs in frustration. “My idiot brother didn’t tell you where we’re going, did he?”
“All he told me was that this was a dinner party.”
“Not just any party. Diego is considering an alliance with the Yezhovbratva. Before Oleg agrees to it, he wants to arrange a marriage between Diego and his youngest daughter.”
I choke on my next breath and sputter, “Arranged marriage? People still do that?”
“They do in mafia world. The Russians are romantic, old-fashioned people. Oleg thinks a partnership will be strengthened by marriage. This dinner is just a preliminary thing. An acknowledgment of friendship between Diego and Oleg and a chance to bring their most trusted soldiers to the table.”
“Then why the hell would he want to bring me?” I ask.
“Hell if I know,” Marcella says. “But if it’s any consolation, Oleg has one of the best chefs in the city and the food is always amazing at his house. Oh, and there’s booze … lots of it. The Russians know how to throw a party.”
That doesn’t make me feel much better. I’ve learned that Diego never makes a decision without calculation. He’s not just bringing me along for amusement or to keep me close. I’m attending this party for a very specific reason, and not knowing what it is drives me crazy.
“Okay, we have just enough time to go over some things,” Marcella says.
“What things?”
