Page 3 of The Mafia Bachelor

Brandon and I get him out with a minimum of hassle, but as we near the ballroom, I hear my mother’s voice, harassed and squeaky.

I might have a reputation of being a devil, for being evil incarnate, but even I have my limits on the hell I can withstand.

Reaching into my pocket for my phone, I pretend to see that it’s ringing. Conveniently, there’s a missed call from Westminster, so I’ll check what he wants. “I need to take this.”

I just need a minute to myself before I go through with this duty. A fecking wife. I guess I should be grateful this didn’t happen when I was twenty, or some arranged marriage nonsense, because although I love my family, there are limits.

Or so I thought.

“I’ll be there,” I assure Brandon, who gives me a wild-eyed look, not happy about dealing with my parents without me. Taking the first exit I see, I stride into a room off the main foyer.

And stop dead.

There’s a girl standing with her back to me, to the side of the massive conference table.

“You can do it!” A soft, whisper-sing, off-tune warble strikes me.

She’s dancing. And singing.

I let the door shut silently and take in the young woman before me. Wavy brown hair gathered neatly at her nape. She’s wearing a loose-fitting suit with trousers and a jacket in a sober grey, with a blue top. Professional.

She has her arms stretched above her head, eyes closed, hips swaying. Then she brings her arms down in a motion that reminds me of a move that when I bothered knowing anything about pop culture, was called the funky chicken. I have no idea what the song is, partly because I don’t think this girl could carry a tune in a bucket. And her dancing is atrocious.

But despite that, as I watch her, I’m grinning, my shitty day forgotten. She’s singing, and dancing, in a meeting room off the foyer in the headquarters of one of the most powerful mafias in London. Her hair is damp from the rain, and she’s got a bag she’s placed on the floor.

Whatever she’s doing, she’s got bravery to go with it.

She’s pretty, too. That doesn’t hurt. I let myself run my gaze over her body. I want to, which is an unusual feeling for me.

I think I desire her.

That’s even rarer.

She must be here for the wife competition. This brave, gorgeous girl is here to audition to be my wife.

“I’m gonna do it,” she sings, off key. “I can do this. This won’t defeat me. I can get this one.”

“Yes…” I drawl.

She spins on her heel, and her eyes are open wide, revealing dark-brown irises. So pretty. She’d be a perfect wife for me.

“I think you can.”

2

AVERY

Mouth open in horror, I stare at the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He has black, curly hair, moss-green eyes, and a hard, masculine jawline, and stubble so long it’s become almost a short beard. It suits him, only making him look rugged when his hair and big eyes would otherwise tip him into being pretty.

He’s stunning. He has effortless presence and power.

And I was doing the silly “you can do it” dance to pep myself up.

My face heats. I gurgle helplessly.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t…” Oh no. This can’t be happening. I swallow hard. “Know anyone was here.” I manage to spit out the explanation. Hopefully without actual spit. “Or I wouldn’t have been…” humiliating myself by doing a ridiculous singing and dancing routine that is strictly “dance like nobody is watching, but first, double check that no one is watching”. “It’s a popular thing on…”

I trail off as he smirks. He doesn’t need to know about my little self-help and confidence video addiction.