Page 1 of Convenient Mafia Vows

PROLOGUE

VICTORIA

I’m hot,hotter than I ever thought it would be possible to be in New York in the winter. Sweat trickles down the front of my chest from beneath the black silk scarf wound around my neck, and I swear that if the line for the restroom doesn’t move within the next three seconds, I’ll whip off the blonde, curly wig I’m wearing and use it to fan myself. At this point, I don’t even care if it ruins my costume.

I’m Sandy.

Or rather, I’m Victoria Callahan dressed up as Sandy fromGreasefor a costume party in a sleazy basement club in the Upper West Side on New Year’s Eve. Scratch that. It’s probably New Year’s Day now although, if it is, I missed the countdown to midnight beneath the thump-thump-thump of hundreds of people in crazy costumes losing all ability to coordinate their movements into something that resembles dancing.

Beneath the blonde wig, my long brunette hair is pinned to my scalp and trapped beneath a scratchy net that isn’t helping. Well, it depends which way you’re looking at it, I guess. My best friend, Sienna, was going to come to the party as Sandy, but being thesexy loyal best-friend-a-gal-could-ever-have, she suggested that it might work better on me.

Because Sienna has no trouble getting laid.

Not that I havetroublegetting laid exactly. I mean, how do you define trouble when it simply never happens?

The problem is, the more time that passes without me finding someone worthy of spreading my legs for, and the older I get, the weirder it becomes. It’s like, when a guy finds out that you’re twenty-three and still haven’t a clue what all the fuss is about they think you’re either a lesbian in denial or there must be something inherently wrong with you that has deterred any other guy from scoring a home run.

Is there something wrong with me?

I don’t think so. A girl’s got to have standards, right?

You’ve only got to look at a classic fairytale to know that Prince Charming is worth holding out for.

Sienna thinks that I give off stay-the-fuck-away-from-me-unless-you’re-prepared-to-go-down-on-one-knee-and-propose vibes.

I don’t.

At least, I don’t give them off intentionally.

I blame my mom. She read those goddamned fairytales to me and then went and ruined everything with a heroin addiction that made her see charming princes behind a slimeball with her next fix. She also left me with a little brother to take care of when I should’ve been fangirling over Zac Eron and Orlando Bloom.

Wednesday Addams comes out of the restroom, glaring at the rest of us waiting in line like we should’ve had the common decency to give her some space, and we shuffle along a couple of paces.

“Smile.” Sienna’s mouth lifts at the corners to demonstrate the concept, and I mimic her, knowing that my attempt hasn’t quite reached my eyes. “That’s better. You’ll never bag yourself a stud while you look like you want to murder someone.”

It’s easy for her to say. After loaning me the costume she’d planned on wearing, she bought a leopard-print mini dress from a thrift store, teamed it with chunky blue beads and bare legs, and piled her naturally red hair up into a messy bun on top of her head. And voila: she’s a gorgeously stunning Wilma fromThe Flintstones.

I know it sounds like I’m jealous of my best friend, but I’m honestly not. She’s the kindest, sweetest-natured person I ever met, and I don’t know where I’d be without her. I wouldn’t be in this dingy club for starters, but I mean, I don’t know where I’d be in life. Hopefully not chasing fixes around the city like my mom did until she met her new husband.

I peer around the club. Fred and Daphne are making out in a corner and, oh my fucking God, did she come here commando?

Blinking the vision out of my head, I avert my eyes and spot Cinderella strutting her stuff—literally—with Mick Jagger. I can’t help smiling at them. I don’t know if they arrived together, but it’s pretty freaking obvious that they’ll be leaving together when everyone else starts running out of steam.

This is what I don’t understand, and I think this is the reason why I never ‘bag myself a stud’ as Sienna puts it. Not that thereare any studs here tonight. Not that I’ve seen anyways. Well, maybe there were some here earlier in the evening, but now that everyone’s steaming, including me, all I can see is sweaty upper lips and drooping wigs.

But anyway, it’s that easy confidence in their ability to attract a member of the opposite sex. Even in this blonde wig and wearing the tightest latex pants in the history of the world, I draw a blank when it comes to looking sexy and flirting. I must’ve been last in line—again—when they were dishing out the fuck-me-cowboy genes.

“You’re doing it again.” Sienna jolts me back to reality.

“Doing what?”

“Overthinking it. Vic—” she places her hands on my shoulders and forces me to look her in the eye “—you look incredible tonight. Any guy that gets the chance to slip inside those pants is going to think he hit the jackpot.”

“Only if I pay out.”

She tips her head back and laughs out loud, a sound that’s contagious. “You will, trust me. You’ll know when the right guy comes along.”

We shuffle closer to the restroom entrance as a whole bunch of girls come pouring out, and suddenly, we’re in, and I have to go through the rigmarole of peeling these pants over my hips.

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