Page 5 of Captive Mafia Wife

“Fiona looks adorable. I just finished her whiskers.” I head down the stairs, knowing full well that his checking on his wife will lead to the newlyweds being unable to keep their paws off one another, and it will be much more than ten minutes before he makes it to the bar.

No problem, I don’t mind drinking alone. And my girls should be arriving early.

Speak of the devil, and she shall appear! As I pass the front door, it flies open, and women from the firm pile in. They’ve come early to share a “quiet” drink with me before the party really kicks into gear.

The women are a flurry of sexy witches, frisky kittens, naughty nurses, and vamped-up vampires. I hug themindividually, admiring their gorgeous costumes, then lead them to the Great Hall for a drink. I have everything their skanky little hearts could desire.

We enter the renovated Great Hall through the heavy wooden doors that, after multiple tries, I’ve finally gotten stained with the perfect shade of warm honey. Our iron sconces hang from the white walls, and the room is aglow with flickering candlelight, casting eerie shadows across the walls adorned with webs and black lace, ghosts and ghouls floating overhead. A fire roars in the massive stone fireplace.

Jack-o'-lanterns grin from every corner, their twisted faces adding a slight eeriness to the decor. The air is thick with the scent of pumpkin spice, warming apple cider, and the burning of vanilla-scented candles, creating the heady atmosphere I was striving for. Nailed it!

Tables are laden with the party's signature drink, whisky bottles, candy corn bowls, and caramel apple platters. Cute bartenders serve us, and after sharing a drink with my girls, I excuse myself to greet the steady stream of guests beginning to arrive.

“Everybody on the island is gonna get tipsy!” I sing what I remember of the American pop song, replacing the word club with island, shaking my hips, whisky dribbling on the front of my black dress as I sip at the cup. “I’m getting more on my clothing than in my mouth.” I laugh, bringing the cup to my lips as I attempt another sip. “I think I might be a wee bit wrecked!”

“Go easy, Freya,” Fiona warns. “You don’t want to get sick.”

“Oh, Fiona! Where did you come from!” I eye my wee redheaded sister-in-law.

The petite bundle of rules wears a black, skin-tight, full cheetah-print bodysuit and a pair of cat ears on a hairband. “I’ve been standing here the whole time, silly. Keeping an eye on you. And your wig.” Rising on the balls of her feet, she gives me and my wig—a persona named Sasha—a proper straightening.

“You are adorable, aren’t you Fi-bee?” I tap a finger against her cutely painted black nose, a job I did way earlier in the evening before I’d started drinking. “Your whiskers held up beautifully!”

“Thanks to my makeup artist.” She holds a delicate flute of champagne in one hand, Champers in the other. The wee ginger kitten hates me and goes everywhere with her, never leaping from her arms.

“Cheers, sister!” I rattle the “filled it myself,” overly full glass of whisky against her champagne flute, sloshing liquor everywhere.

“How about switching to water.” She puts her glass on a table, her face wrinkling with displeasure as she one-handedly wipes her hand on a napkin. “Or a nice cup of tea. Or cheese and bread to soak up all that alcohol?”

“Drink up. Everybody on this island needs to be tipsy tonight.”

Fiona’s brow wrinkles. “We’re not on the island. We’re in Glasgow.”

“Shite! You’re right. Everybody in the city was getting tipsy. Hey! That sounds even better. Thanks, friend.” I give her a few bars of the new lyrics.

She seems less than impressed.

Planting a motherly hand on her hip, she shoots me an “I mean business” look. Her brows go sky high as she looks me over from the toes of my knee-high black high-heeled Saint Laurent boots to purple Sasha resting on the top of my head.

She shakes her head and says, “I think I need to go get Callum.”

“Gah! No way. Callum isnoooooofun.” I reach out a fingertip, bopping her lightly on the tip of her nose again. “I, on the upper hand, am fun. Very”—bop—“fun.”

“And on theotherhand…ye might be having just a wee bit too much fun.” Fiona murmurs something else about getting my brother to lay eyes on me.

“No thanks, babe.” I lean down, planting a smooch on her soft cheek, getting a waft of Chanel. “Oh, you smell good. New perfume?”

Already knowing the answer. My brother bought it for her; even though she married into a bottomless bank account, she’d never spend that kind of money on herself.

“Callum got it for me. I adore it. Wear it every day.” She leans in and whispers, “But I could never splurge like that on a tiny bottle of liquid.”

“You’ll learn. I’ll teach you,” I promise.

I twirl off with a curtsy and a bow to address my other guests. “Everybody in the city gettin’ tipsy.” I sashay away, calling, “Everybody in the city—is getting tipsy!”

“Heck, yes, we are!” a familiar voice calls out.

Finally! Someone ready to party on my level. I look over my shoulder as Kitt strolls up, the American girl who foundherself on the wee island where I grew up. She’s practically family, married into our messy little Scottish mafia world.

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