Page 38 of Convenient Mafia Vows

Until Moira filled me in over several cups of coffee—rich and chocolatey, not the cheap granules I usually pick up from the grocery store—and some wafer-thin biscuits covered in thick dark chocolate.

She spoke about actors, socialites, and celebrities the way Sienna and I would speak about our mobile hairdresser and the woman at the cash register in the grocery store. She dropped names like Meg Ryan and Lady Gaga into the conversation without even realizing. I found out which celebrities were dating—information that wasn’t readily available on social media—who was having an affair with whose husband or wife, and Moira’spredictions for celebrity marriages and babies for the coming twelve months.

By the end of the conversation, my head was spinning.

“You’ll be fine, Victoria.” Moira smiled. “Look, I know that you must have your reasons for agreeing to help Caleb, and I’m not going to pry,” she quickly added when I opened my mouth to speak, “but I want you to know that you can trust my son.”

Tears pricked my eyes. Perhaps it was the overwhelming amount of information she’d offloaded onto me and the fear that, within twenty-four hours, I would be stepping into my role as Caleb’s wife in public. But my emotions had been swinging violently between emotional wreck and sugar-rush excitement ever since.

This morning, Abigail and I went up to the rooftop where we found inflatables in the pool, and our own chef who prepared snacks and cocktails—mocktails for Abigail—behind the bar. The sun came out, and for a couple hours, I forgot about the impending dinner at the Michelin-star restaurant Cesar with Caleb’s acquaintances. I forgot about Olivia Dragonetti, and our fake marriage contract, and the heavy emerald-and-diamond-ring on my finger.

I almost forgot that it had been two days since I’d heard from Mason.

Moira collects Abigail from Caleb’s apartment shortly after lunchtime. She offered to babysit, and although I was uncertain about leaving Abigail with a stranger and didn’t want to impose on Moira’s time, Abigail is excited to go to Moira’s house. She slips her hand into the older woman’s palm with a fluffy unicorn tucked under her other arm and kisses me goodbye like Moira is her favorite grandma.

Standing in the middle of Caleb’s apartment, I suddenly feel lost. I’ve practically raised Mason and Abigail singlehandedly, and now, I realize with a sharp pang of disappointment, that I don’t know what to do when I’m alone.

After my one-night stand with Danny five years ago, my monthly cycle was late. I’m never late. I experienced twenty-four hours of sheer, hair-pulling, ugly-crying panic. Abigail was a few months old, and it was already obvious that her mom was going to hand her over to Mason, which meant that the responsibility would fall onto my shoulders.

But once the panic subsided, I realized that being a mom was all I’d ever wanted. A child of my own—Danny’s child—filled me with such immense joy that I already knew what maternal love was.

Then, when my cycle regulated itself a week later, I went from a floating sense of euphoria to crushing grief. It was almost as if I’d held our baby in my arms and had it snatched away again. A baby would’ve been a reminder of what happened that night. A tiny piece of Danny to keep close to my heart forever, as difficult as it would’ve been struggling on my own with a young child.

Maybe that pregnancy scare is the reason why I still feel scarred by that night of passion. I needed to know that there was a reason why Danny came into my life. But I’m still searching for it, because I refuse to believe that it was a one-night-only thing.

Anyway, I have six hours to kill before Caleb and I are going out.

It usually takes me thirty minutes max to get ready for a night out, but I’m in the penthouse apartment of the Wraith, I remind myself, and Caleb is still working.

What’s the point of a fake marriage if I don’t take advantage of my husband’s assets?

Chuckling to myself at the image of Caleb Murray straddling a sleek black Harley, I wander into the main bathroom. I fill the tub with steaming hot water and expensive coconut-and-lime-scented bubbles from the selection provided on the glass shelf, undress, and slide in. I sit back and close my eyes.

If anyone had told me a week ago that I’d be soaking in Caleb Murray’s bathtub with his mom’s engagement ring on my finger, and a meal planned at Cesar, I’d have thought they were living in la-la-land. But here I am. Is this what the universe planned for me all along?

If so, it’s hard to imagine why.

I change position, and my fingers brush a jet under the water. Caleb said this was a jacuzzi. Opening my eyes, I locate the button and press it, steady streams of bubbles massaging my back. Oh my God, this is bliss.

I remain in the tub until my fingers are pink and wrinkled. Then, I moisturize, wind my damp hair around soft, fat curlers, and wander back to my bedroom with a fluffy, white towel wrapped around me.

What to wear tonight?

Moira warned me that the police commissioner and mayor and their wives would be there, along with various other high-ranking members of the community. I’m assuming that Olivia Dragon-face will be there too, and if our last meeting is anything to go by, she’ll be dressed to impress.

Dressed to impress Caleb, anyway.

I check out the clothes in my dressing room. When I arrived with Abigail yesterday, I felt stung that Caleb had filled an entire room with clothes for me, knowing that my wardrobe wouldn’t contain the kind of outfits his wife would wear. Mainly because I’d never blow six months wages on a dress. But now, the thought of wearing my shabby best dress in Olivia’s company makes my stomach twist with … jealousy?

Why?

Caleb Murray would never have noticed me if I hadn’t been trying to stop Killian from killing my brother. I was his concierge for a whole four hours, during which time he didn’t set eyes on me once, and he certainly wouldn’t pick me out in a restaurant if I spilled red-wine on his pristine silk shirt. So, why do I want him to look at me instead of Olivia Dragonetti?

Is it pride? I’m his wife; we’ve only just gotten married in a fictitious Irish ceremony, so he should theoretically only have eyes for me. Shouldn’t he?

The more I think about Olivia Dragonetti fawning over Caleb in his office the more determined I am to upstage her. But when I enter the dressing room, the sheer volume of clothes hanging neatly on the rails immediately drowns my resolve. It has been so long since I’ve been shopping with enough money in my bank account to buy clothes for myself that I no longer remember what suits me. The lack of price tags, instead of helping, is making it even harder. The choice!

Avoiding the clothes, for now, I do my makeup first, seated in front of a mirror surrounded by theater lamps. Every item is still sealed. Immaculate. A million miles away from the bedraggled brushes and almost empty pots in my own faded makeup bag.

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