Page 32 of Forced Arrangement

And then I see her—tall, blonde, and impossibly glamorous, even after a transatlantic flight. Justine is the kind of woman who turns heads without trying, her presence commanding attention the moment she steps into view. She spots me through the car window and breaks into a grin, waving enthusiastically as she approaches.

“Sarah!” she calls out, using my old name. It makes my heart pang, but I don’t correct her. Not yet. Not when she’s about to be thrown into the middle of everything.

I push open the door and step out to meet her. “Sophia,” I remind her with a smile, pulling her into a tight hug. The familiar scent of her perfume, the feel of her arms around me—it’s like a balm for my frayed nerves.

“Right, right. Sophia Agostini, Mafia Princess,” she teases, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she pulls back to look at me. “God, it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too,” I reply, my voice softer than I intended. “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too, love,” she says, looping her arm through mine as we turn back toward the car. “Now, let’s get out of here. I need a shower, a drink, and a full update on whatever the hell is going on in your life.”

“You and me both,” I mutter, leading her to the car.

Just as we get close, the door opens, and Franco climbs out. His hawk-like eyes survey the area around us before he places one of his hands on each of our shoulders, and hustles us into the car. Justine makes a very British sound of protest at being handled in such a manner, but I follow Franco without question.

“No loitering about in the open,” he says firmly, sliding in beside me and slamming the door. “Drive,” he says to the man in the driver’s seat.

If steam could come out of someone’s ears, Justine would be ready to boil over. I see her open her mouth to say something particularly direct and cutting, but then Franco turns to look at her. There’s a moment of silence as they stare at one another, and Justine blinks as if she’s surfacing from underwater.

“Hot Italian bodyguard, I see,” she says, recovering neatly.

I giggle. “Something like that,” I admit, glancing at Franco. “He wasn’t wrong. We shouldn’t have been wandering around in plain sight like that.”

“Thank you for rescuing me from certain danger,” Justine says, her English accent soft inviting, delightfully foreign. Shebats her eyes a little at Franco, and I roll mine. I’ve seen this song and dance before. It usually works for my friend, but Franco is a totally different kind of man than the guys that Justine is used to flirting with.

“Don’t mention it,” Franco says, his tone civil, and dare I say it…inviting. I glance at him in annoyance. I’ve spent the entire time I’ve been here trying to get into his good graces and Justine seems to have won him over within seconds of her arrival.

“Tell me,” Justine says to him coyly, “do you have time to guard me as well as Sar…Sophia?”

I sigh, shaking my head, but I smile anyway. I can’t help but feel a strange sense of relief. Justine was still Justine, even in the face of danger and uncertainty, and that made everything a little more bearable.

The ride back to the penthouse is filled with chatter, Justine’s excitement bubbling over as she peppers me with questions about New York, the penthouse, and—of course—Angelo. I answer as best as I can, skirting around the more dangerous details. I know it won’t be long before she starts digging deeper.

When we arrive at the penthouse, Justine steps out first, her eyes widening as she takes in the grandeur of the building. “Blimey,” she breathes, spinning in a slow circle to take it all in. “You weren’t kidding when you said this place was posh.”

“It’s something,” I agree, motioning for her to follow me inside. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

“Coming with us, Franco?” Justine asks over her shoulder as we walk into the lobby of the building.

He nods, his expression as stoic as ever, but I catch the subtle way his eyes flicker over to Justine, narrowing slightly in assessment. “Just doing my job,” he replies, his tone clipped.

Justine nods at him. “Just so,” she says to him primly. She snakes her arm through mine. “Is it in the water, or the food theyeat here? Do they all look like this?” she whisperssotto voceat me.

I have to bite back a laugh, knowing full well that Franco’s guarded exterior is about to get a serious test.

“This is Franco Pesci,” I finally introduce him. “He’s Angelo’s second-in-command.”

“Franco,” Justine repeats, her voice practically purring as she steps closer, her hand extended. “Pleasure to officially meet you.”

Franco hesitates for the briefest moment before taking her hand, his grip firm but careful, as if he isn’t quite sure what to do. “Likewise,” he says, his voice lower than usual. But I notice the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s the first crack I have ever seen in his otherwise impenetrable demeanor.

He tries to take back his hand, but Justine holds on tighter. I’m no expert in made men, but I know for a fact that if someone was as built and as fucking intimidating as Franco, if they wanted to fling a whole human across the room, it would be a walk in Central Park for him to do so.

Yet, here he was, trapped by the dainty fingers of my best friend and her fluttering lashes. Not that I could blame him of course. I'd seen lesser men fall before Justine’s siren eyes and her sharp as-needles tongue.

He looked so out of his element, standing there with his hand in hers. I thought the tips of his ears might even be turning red.

Justine’s smile widened. “So, Franco, what exactly does a second-in-command do around here? Besides looking, hot as fuck and good enough to eat, of course.”

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