Page 6 of Captive Mafia Wife

“Yeeeeehaw!” Kitt calls, looking adorably American in her cowgirl boots, leather hat, and cut-off shorts. I’ll have to find Patrick later and get a pic of the two Wild West costumes together. She laughs, clinking her glass against mine. She holds one of my most prized creations, the Spooksicle—a fruity, frozen vodka drink served in a glass that smokes with dry ice as you consume it.

White puffs of air swirl from the open top of her skull-shaped cup.

“Yeehaw to you too, you crazy American bird!” I hold up my glass now with only a splash of alcohol in it with a cheer.

“Cheers,” she says. Lowering her voice, she pulls me in closer. “Hey—I just saw Fiona striding off to find your brother. I think your party is about to be shut down?—”

“Hell no. That issonot happening,” I say, borrowing Kitt’s LA tone, then quickly trade it out for my best cowgirl twang. “Ya’ll have fun now, you hear!”

Leaving Kitt, I make my way through the tight crowd.

Exiting the hall, I breeze through the kitchen, thanking the caterers yet again for their yummy party food, and slip out the back door.

The temperature has dropped since I made my way home from work this afternoon, and a blast of air cools my face, which is flushed from the drink.

The garden is alive with fall colors. Golden leaves cascade from the trees; carpeting the grass, we’ve just mowed with swaths of reds, oranges, and yellows. Pumpkin lanternsflicker with an ethereal light, casting eerie shadows that dance across the expanse of the garden. The crisp air carries the faint scent of woodsmoke from the bonfire that crackles merrily by the overturned boat bar.

Callum tried to axe my fire under “safety terms,” but I would not let him. Samhain fires strengthen the bond of the community; communal fire on the final day of October says it’s the start of winter, so let's make sure we all stay warm together!

Fire and food will keep our bonds strong.

Tables groan under the weight of decadent, savory food and colorful gourds while my costumed guests mingle around the parquet dance floor we’ve installed for the party. I cross over the parquet, pausing in the center to strike a pose.

I move further into the enchanted garden, holding my empty glass in the air. “Drink up all! All of youse!”

A cheer rises from the crowd.

On my way to the bar, I find a group of my law firm girls dancing with some islanders from home. Happy to see my two worlds mixing, I greet, kiss, and shimmy around the crowd.

Carol Ann, a girl from the island I think of like a younger cousin, stomps her boots to the music, shaking her dark curls; the ends are dyed a bright orange in honor of the holiday. She wears a cape and pulls it around her, swooshing it through the air.

A huge fan of vampire romance novels, Carol Ann smiles at me, revealing pointy teeth. “Ivantto suck yer blood!”

“Later!” I shout over my shoulder as I pass her, making a beeline for the bar. “Need more whisky first!”

“Good! I like blood with high alcohol content best,” Carol Ann shouts back.

I turn back over my shoulder, shooting her a grin. “Got you covered!” I say. She laughs as I sprint away for more booze.

“Oooph!” In haste, I’ve run smack-dab into a solid wall of heat and muscle—the scent of cedarwood, bonfire, and masculine energy. I look up to find deep brown, serious eyes staring down at me, rays of heat and intrigue in those dark pupils. Focused on me like I’m the only one standing out here.

The gorgeous man standing before me is Fredrick Frisque, one of my brother’s mates, the French entrepreneur who opened Frisky Whisky,the new distillery and hotspot of Glasgow nightlife. I can’t say he hadn’t caught my attention when he breezed in my front door earlier tonight.

Any straight woman with a pair of eyes and a working vagina notices the man.

Six feet plus. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Olive skin. Angled cheekbones glide down in flat planes to meet a chiseled jaw. Tall. Dark. Handsome. And he makes a damn fine whisky, the very drink I’m searching for now.

Smoky and oaky, with a hint of clove. Warms you from the inside. It’s so yummy going down.

“‘Scuse me, Frisky Freddie.” Hearing my terrible nickname for him, Sir Fredrick holds in a groan. “Got to get to that bottle right there.” I slip past him, grabbing the whisky from behind the bar.

His hand shoots out, grabbing the neck of the bottle I hold. Rude. He eyes my costume. “What are you? A crayon?” Rude AGAIN. His simple statement makes me rethink my entire costume.

Unwilling to give him an ounce of power, I sniff, indignant. “I happen to be a purple marker. It was my favorite of the marker choices when I was little. Everyone in my class knew that, of the collective supplies stored in the center of our group’s table, the purple marker belonged to me. Purple-handled scissors as well.”

“But as you said, those were communal items.”

“And also, as I said, purple was mine.” I glance over at Mr. Too-stoic-to-don-a-costume’s classic look: a dark gray suit with a crisp white button-down. Gold cuff links match the gold of the buttons on his suit jacket. “And what are you supposed to be? Where’s your costume?”

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