Page 14 of Captive Mafia Wife

A smile plays on my lips as I think of the parts I do remember clearly: the dancing and the karaoke contest, the stage lit with florescent pinks and purples, the music thumping loudly. I was singing at the top of my lungs; June and Madyson played backup dancers on stage behind me.

My head pulses, my dehydrated brain squeezing away from my skull, making my stomach nauseous.

Was it worth it?I ask myself. “Hell, yes, it was.”

I’d love to spend the day hurkle-durkling, but I’ve yet to miss a single day of work, and today will not be my first. Between my All Hallows Eve party last Thursday then celebrating last night, I swear to myself I’ll not be going out again on a work night for at least?—

Who am I kidding?

Finally tracking down my phone, I look at the time. I’ve got an hour to shower and blow-dry meters of hair, which will also need a deep conditioning treatment since my hairdresser just stripped my medium blonde roots to platinum.

Slap on enough makeup and pull on a suit to look like the powerhouse solicitor I am. Not the hungover slag I currently appear to be.

And after all this—I’ve got to find a way down that gorgeous curving staircase—my sleek banister polished daily—and long hallway and out that front door without running smack dab into my beast of a brother.

No doubt he’ll have something to say that I don’t want to hear. Either about my night out, the fact that I’m still unattached, or something equally annoying.

Fifty-five minutes later, hair shining like a mermaid of the sea, I quietly tiptoe my way down the hall, attempting to avoid him.

A deep, familiar voice booms out, “Freya, you smell like a pub,” just about startling the wee out of me.

“Smell?” I flip around to face my giant, overprotective brother. “I just washed!”

He crosses his arms over his massive chest—like he needs to make his biceps look any more prominent—and eyes me with that stern brow furrowing his handsome face. I’m a little surprised he’s not stroking his beard in contemplation as he takes in my peely-wally complexion.

Cream blusher is an incredible invention, but there’s only so much cosmetics can do.

He asks, “How many whiskys did you have last night?”

“Enough to think I sounded good when I hit the high notes of Tina Charles,” I say.

He moans. “Not disco.”

“I love to love, but my baby loves to dance!” I give him a little taste, swaying my hips, an imaginary mic to my lips. “I’m spinning like a top.” I try to do a turn. Still lightheaded from dehydration, I lose my footing.

Callum catches me in his strong arms, righting me. “Never do that move again.”

“It was good last night, I swear! Our act was pure dead brilliant!” My exuberance makes my head pound. I put my hand to my forehead. “We came in fourth.”

“You were doing karaoke in front of Glasgow and thinking you were brilliant at it? So, you’d had enough whisky to float a boat.”

“Or burn down a building.” I moan. “My breath hitting one flicker of a flame last night would have taken out the entire club.”

“Freya.” His green eyes are serious, his voice dropping an octave. “You’re partying too much.”

For a beat, I let his words sink in. My head is a mess. He may have a wee bit of a point.

Never one to admit when my younger brother is right, I pull the humor card. “Sharp as a tack. You could have been a detective. Then we’d have been a detective and a lawyer instead of a mafia leader and his sidekick, always ready to bail him and his criminal friends out. The parents would be so proud?—”

“Freya…” he warns.

“‘Course I’m partying! And drinking. I’m young?—”

He cuts me off with a very rude, “Almost thirty.”

“Och, never tell a girl her age! As I said, I am young, single, and living in the city. Of course, I party! Anyway, last night, I had a great reason to drink too much—not that I need your permission—but we were celebrating.”

“What for?” he asks.

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