Page 14 of Christmas with the Mafia
“A vlog?” He raises his impeccable eyebrow.
“Tell me about that.”
“Well,–” I fumble in my purse and bring out my phone, scrolling through until I find my page.
“Here. It’s called basket case and I advertise my products while chatting about world events.”
He reaches for my phone and stares at the screen, and I wonder what he must be thinking right now. I mean, the profile picture could use some updating. It’s me dressed as a fairy from three Christmas parties ago. I really should change that.
Without a word, he hands the phone to his um, friend I guess, who stares at it with a blank expression.
“Do you have a profile? Perhaps we should follow one another?”
I babble, and he shakes his head. “No, I do not.”
“Oh, you really should get one. I mean, there are so many opportunities online these days. I’ll help set you up if you like, even share your page with my followers. You never know; it may work.”
The silent one hands back my phone, and I say hopefully, “We should grab a selfie, um, all of us. That would be fun.”
“No.” Nico’s tone is abrupt. “There will be no photography, no vlogs and no online profiles. Tonight we are putting business aside and concentrating on pleasure instead.”
“Oh, um, okay, yes – pleasure. Super duper.”
He raises his eyes and I blush. “I’m sorry. Well, you must be wondering what kind of idiot you rescued.”
“I wonder nothing. I deal in facts.”
The elevator arrives, and I notice the silent one exits first as Nico reaches formy hand. “Come, we are late.”
As we head toward the ballroom, I’m aware of an atmosphere I cannot place. Nico’s hand is firmly curled around mine, and he is rigid beside me. There is no talking, no eye contact with anyone, and the faces of the people we pass appear almost reverent. I’m also aware that as soon as we left the elevator, two men fell into step behind us, dressed also in black, their expressions cast in stone and I whisper nervously, “I don’t want to alarm you but we’re being followed. I really hope it’s not because of me. I was thrown out earlier, and they must be pissed about that.”
I get no reaction, just a tightening of his grip in my hand, and before I can interrupt the madness with more pointless words, a man stops in front of us and says with reverence, “Mr. Ravera, Justin Scott, the um manager. I am sorry I wasn’t here to greet you personally.”
I’m amazed at how much the manager is sweating right now. It doesn’t seem that warm; if anything, there’s a lingering chill in the air down to the revolving doors constantly, well, revolving.
I almost think Nico will totally ignore the poor man, and then he stops and jerks his thumb toward the door.
“The doorman and the woman checking in the guests. Bring them to me.”
The blood drains from both the manager’s face and mine because what the hell is happening now?
He scurries off, and Nico stands, along with everyone surrounding us, and as he waits, his glare could melt the ice sculptures outside.
I say nothing because it is becoming increasingly evident that I am well out of my league, and once again, I wonder who the hell Nico is.
It doesn’t take long before the three of them appear, and I note the discomfort on all of their faces.
Nico sneers with contempt, and the atmosphere darkens as he glares at the woman and doorman in turn.
“You disrespected my guest.”
His low husky growl sends shivers down my spine, and the sudden burst of heat in the faces before me lights a sudden toxic atmosphere. I wonder if I should interrupt and say it was nothing, but to be honest, it waseverything. I have never been so mortified, and I really would prefer to fade into the shadows right now, but Nico is having none of it.
“Apologize to Miss Stone.”
His low growl almost makes me jump, and the woman is first as she stutters, “I’m sorry, sir.”
He holds up his hand. “I said, apologize to Miss Stone. Not to me.”
