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“Now hold COMPLETELY still or I’ll smudge the liner.” Sophie is taking my bridesmaid makeover seriously. She just spent ten minutes inventorying her massive cosmetic case in search of the ideal shade of lip gloss.
Sophie works in silence and then pulls back. “Your lips are absolutely the perfect shape. I would give anything to look like you. Did anyone ever tell you that you could be a runway model? Seriously, you could. You’re tall, you’ve got the body for it and my god, people have actuallykilledfor your cheekbones.”
It’s not hard to tune her out as she prattles on about my imaginary modeling career. In the two months since she arrived here in Em City, Sophie has gotten into the habit of hanging around here at the club. I never tell her to get lost even though she’s ditzy, always gets in the way and constantly carries on about nonsense. I feel sorry for her.
Anyone who is stuck being married to my cousin Jared deserves truckloads of pity. Jared is a soulless bastard who doesn’t deserve the attention of a dog and their story isn’t exactly a love match.
Sophie was born into a Las Vegas mafia family, one of the traditional names standing atop generations of hushed respect. A far cry from what we are; an upstart squad of gutter gangsters. Recently my father grew interested in dipping his inked fingers into some underground Vegas business. Meanwhile, the big boss out there craved a taste of the action here in Emerald City. The two of them struck a deal, cemented by the marriage of Sophie Castigliore to Jared Marchenko.
Now Sophie is stuck with an Armani-suited prick who sees the likeness of god when he looks in the mirror. The only choice that could have been worse than Jared is his younger brother, Talon.
Anyway, I can’t fault Sophie for hiding out here at the club instead of going home to that jackass. Besides, it’s not as if I have piles of friends to choose from so I ought to play nice when they show up in my life.
Three staccato raps come from the other side of my office door.
I call out, “It’s open.”
Fiona’s auburn curls frame her lovely face as she takes in the scene of my temporary makeover in progress. “Looking good, boss.” She brings the noise of the club; the final notes of a Beyonce song and the jeers of men salivating over a raunchy stage performance.
A tension headache begins to bloom at the base of my neck.
“Close the door behind you,” I say while scouting the nearest desk drawer for a bottle of aspirin. I shake out the last two pills and tip my head back while chasing them with a gulp of mineral water.
Fiona perches on the edge of my desk, observing me with avid green eyes. Her origin story is a little cloudy. She was born in Ireland but never speaks of it. Her experience on the pole came from her years in Vegas but she’s tight lipped about that era too. She mentors the younger staff and she’s become my second in command, used to being in charge whenever I’m not around. Sometimes I don’t know how I’d manage without her.
“Tonight will be busy,” she says in her Irish lilt. She taps her sparkly purple acrylic nails on my desktop. “I think the spring air is fuel for testosterone. And thanks to some big sporting goods convention downtown there are plenty of newcomers prowling the city in search of entertainment.”
Sophie accidentally stabs my skull with a bobby pin. “Sorry!”
I politely escape her by rising to my feet. “Luckily we’ve got a full cast tonight and the bar is overstocked. Is the new girl settling in all right?”
Fiona nods. “She’s still a little quiet but she’ll come around. On a related topic, Barnum has been complaining about you rather loudly.”
“Is that right?” I chuckle with no humor.
“Yup. He’s accusing you of stealing his best dancers.”
“Stealing. As if they’re his property. I know how he operates. I’ve seen the bruises on the girls who work for him. Fuck that sloppy train wreck. His days of operating in this district are numbered if he keeps pushing my buttons. And if I hear anything else about him roughing up women then one of these days he might find a hole in the center of that rock he calls a skull.”
Fiona toys with the fringe hanging from the neckline of her sequined red shirt. “No arguments here.” Her expression is relaxed. She’s worked for me long enough to understand I don’t blow hot air. I mean what I say. And she obviously approves.
Sophie, on the other hand, gawks at me with startled doe eyes and now I want to kick myself.
I need to hold my tongue more when I’m around her. Despite the ruthless reputation of her father, she’s been slow to adapt to her new reality.
It’s not as if she can count on Jared for an education. Sophie’s new husband hardly acknowledges she’s alive. Even Jared isn’t stupid enough to abuse the daughter of a mafia king but he has no use for her unless he’s in need of a warm destination for his dick. She told me so one night after getting shitfaced and then she swore me to absolute secrecy.
Seriously, who the hell would I tell?
And even if I decided to shout the news into a bullhorn, no one would be surprised.
Jared is a narcissistic garbage person. He fits into the family far better than I do.
For Sophie’s sake, I force my mouth to smile to make her think I’m just joking about adding bullet holes to the heads of bad men. There’s no need to remind her what she married into.
Sophie is comforted enough to break into a smile of her own before picking through her array of beauty products again.
She waves around a curling iron. “The wand is still hot. Can I add some more waves? I really want to. Your hair holds a curl so perfectly. Unless you’ve changed your mind and decided to wear all of it up. Do you want to wear it up? Oh, I think you should! Fiona, don’t you think she ought to wear it up?”
