Page 14 of Rent a Mob Boss

Textbooks off the counter. Takeout containers into the trash. The trash is full. I pull the bag and tie it, then set it by the door.

The bathroom? Oh, god, the bathroom. I throw the shower curtain closed, wipe the counter with a hand towel, relocate my collection of hair products under the sink, then decide that if he needs to use the bathroom, I’m just going to leave the country.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, I manage to remember to throw my clothes back on. I’m breathing hard, surveying my accomplishments, when the knock comes. A look at the clock tells me it’s been eighteen minutes. He’s two minutes early.

When I go to the door, I check myself in the mirror hanging next to it. I pretty much look like a person who just sprinted through her own apartment for eighteen minutes, because I am. My cheeks are flushed and my hair is basically a mess, and I’m slightly damp. This is fine. Everything’s fine.

I open the door.

He’s standing in the hallway in a dark jacket and a black shirt, and he looks exactly the way he always looks—like he belongs someplace much more expensive than this. He doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes move past me into the apartment like he’s scanning it before they come back to my face.

“Hi,” I say, not at all winded. Totally calm. “That was fast.”

“There’s a boutique downtown,” he explains, like we’re picking up a conversation we were already having. “I called ahead. They’re opening for us. I’ll take you now—you can pick out whatever you want.”

A girl could get whiplash. “A boutique? It’s past nine o’clock at night.”

“They owe me a favor.”

I want to ask what kind of favor. Who wouldn’t? But if he wanted me to know, he would’ve told me. And I learned a long time ago not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

So instead, I grab my jacket and my bag and follow him outside. I recognize the sleek town car parked by the curb. Something tells me the BMW is permanently out of commission. Pony poop just isn’t the kind of thing even a luxury car can come back from.

We climb into the back seat, and his driver pulls away into the night, because Dorian Moretti made a call, and a boutique opened for him.

This is not my life. This is someone else’s life. I’m only borrowing it for the evening.

The boutique is the kind of place I’ve walked past a hundred times without going in, because I’ve always known on some cellular level that I don’t belong inside. The window displays have one item each—a single bag, a single pair of shoes—lit from above like art in a museum. It’s the kind of store where there’s never a price tag in sight, because if you have to ask, you can’t afford it. Even I know that much.

A woman named Adriana meets us wearing a silk blouse with a tape measure around her neck. Her warm, friendly smile says she’s been expecting us. “Mr. Moretti. And you must be Quinn,” she adds, turning her smile on me. “Come in. We have champagne.”

They do. It’s in a flute, and it’s cold, and it’s handed to me before I’ve taken my jacket off. It’s also, without exaggeration, the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Because obviously, I have to take a sip, right? It would be rude if I didn’t.

Adriana is already leading me toward the back, past racks of dresses that look less like clothing and more like a reminder of how poor I am. “Now,” she says, looking my way over her shoulder. “What are we looking for today?”

“A cocktail dress. For an engagement party.” I hold the champagne against my chest like it’s going to protect me. From what? I have no clue. “Something that, you know… looks nice, but not too—I mean, elegant, but not like I’m trying too hard, but also not like I’m not trying. You know?”

She nods as if I’ve said something coherent.

“And…” I lower my voice, leaning in. “I’m on kind of a budget. Is there anything in here under, let’s say, three hundred dollars?”

Something happens on her face. It’s not unkind. She’s not laughing at me, exactly. But there’s a tiny flicker of something close to surprise, which she covers with a warm smile and a gentle hand on my arm.

“Sweetheart,” she murmurs, “Mr. Moretti is taking care of everything.”

I don’t think I’ve ever come so close to having my jaw hit the floor. “Oh, no. No, I can’t let him⁠—”

“He was very specific.” She guides me toward the fitting rooms, which are not fitting rooms so much as they are small, carpeted apartments with armchairs and everything. “He’d also like to see each option, if you’re comfortable. He said he’d like to approve the final choice.”

I look through the curtain toward the front of the store. Dorian is sitting in a chair that was clearly placed there for him. One ankle is crossed over the other knee, with one arm on the rest. His other hand holds a glass of something dark. He looks like he owns the building. For all I know, he does.

“Okay,” I whisper to no one in particular. Adriana hands me the first dress, and the evening begins.

It’s navy blue, off the shoulder, with a hem that hits just above the knee. It fits as if it was made for me. I step out, and Adriana adjusts the neckline before I turn to face Dorian.

His eyes come up from whatever he was looking at on his phone and land on me in a way that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention.

His eyes start at the hem and move up, slowly. By the time they reach my face, I’m holding my breath and don’t know when I started. “No.”