Page 7 of Christmas with the Mafia
“Jessica Sykes.”
“He’s here!” My gasp is loud, causing the doorman to shift beside me, probably itching to get his hands on my near-naked body and toss me out of those revolving doors like my worst nightmare.
“Yes, they’re ticked off. I’m sorry, I must ask you to leave.”
“Connor’s here? There must be a mistake. He’s got COVID. It’s why I’m here solo.”
“COVID?” She appears alarmed. “You mean he’s contagious.”
A grim determination settles over her expression, and she whispers into her headset, “Connor East may be infectious. Put out a call for him to report to main reception, and if he fails the test, ask him to leave.”
My heart is thumping as I stare at her in shock, and she points to the door with a sympathetic smile.
“I’m sorry, I must ask you to leave.”
“But–” Tears blind me as I face the fact my worst nightmare is about to come true.
“Please.” I’m almost crying, and I probably would be if there wasn’t a block of ice inside me right now.
“Is there another exit I can use? I can’t, well, it would be humiliating to go back out there.”
“The hotel is sealed; only the invited get to pass this point. I’m sorry, that is your only option.”
“But–” The doorman moves beside me and touches my arm.
“Allow me to show you to the door, ma’am.”
The woman turns her attention to the next person, and as I am propelled back through the doors, the icy chill of winter hits me square in every part of me that screams bad decisions.
As I hit the red carpet, it takes all of my nonexistent gymnasticskills to remain upright and attempt to wrestle the fabric into decorum as I face the fact that this is the most humiliating night of my life.
Four
NICO
The hotel risesup before me like an apparition, courtesy of the projected images dancing across its façade. Lights are everywhere, flashing from the entrance as the paps ply their trade, the hotel itself lit like a beacon. There are frozen ice sculptures set on the walk up the red carpet, and as my car draws to a stop and I glance out of the blackened window, a curious sight greets me.
There is a woman, almost naked, shivering under the glare of the popping lights from the cameras. She is clutching her purse close to her chest and appears like a stricken fawn caught in the headlights.
I note my guards from the car in front take up their positions along the red carpet, the ones from behind mirroring them on the other side. She is now caught inside a wall of dark menace, and her quivering lip matches the shiver of her body as she stands on the most absurd silver heels.
The door opens, and Trent bows his head inside.
“There is a hold-up, a woman who hasn’t made it inside yet.”
“Then help her with that.”
My voice comes out as a low growl, and Trent nods. “Of course.”
I watch, mildly irritated, as he approaches her and as she raises her petrified eyes to his, something shifts inside me.
Possibility.
I step foot on the red carpet, noting their discussion, and as the cameras turn to me, I am blinded by their brilliance. I approach the woman, and her voice shakes as she whispers, “But I was invited.”
She balances her purse on one arm as she wipes a stray tear away, and as scenes go, this one is immensely tragic. In fact, she is a tragedy waiting to happen. A distraught Ophelia if you like, teetering on the point of madness, her ethereal beauty only heightened with the drama.
“Is there a problem?”
