Page 29 of Mafia Boss's Fake Wife

Inside, I'm immediately reminded that this isn't a regular store. When I was little, my mom shopped at all the bargain shops. When my dad found out about me, he tried to truss me up like his fucking mafia princess.

It didn't go well for him.

I'm an Interpol agent. I don't know anything about walking into a fancy department store.

Marco, however, does.

Within seconds he's greeted by someone who looks like she could have walked straight out of a magazine. Vogue Ireland then proceeds to hug Marco, which makes my blood absolutely boil until he turns around to look at me.

He winks.

Winks!

The bloody nerve of him!

He winks at me and then waves, and before I know it a flurry of people have descended on me.

What feels like an eternity later, I'm sitting in a dressing room. I’ve been prodded and poked and fluffed and stuffed into a million different outfits, and I am about to practice my fucking hand-to-hand skills.

This must be obvious, because eventually the attendants disappear.

I look at myself in the mirror.

"You look ridiculous," I mutter.

I'm wearing some kind of jumpsuit. It fits well... It's flattering enough. I'm by no means a tall, elegant, or even well-endowed woman. I've got wide hips and very athletic legs, and my breasts... exist.

But in this jumpsuit, they look downright plump.

Lovely.

I, however, am overstimulated and...

ugh.

Sad.

I've been fighting off memories of my father, dragging me to see a personal shopper when I was a teenager. He had a thousand critiques of my body then, when I needed them the absolute least.

When I needed my mom to fight themoff.

But I didn't have it then.

Suddenly the jumpsuit is too tight. Too scratchy. It's not even helpful, really, because the fucking undergarments they pasted onto my body are also...

The door squeaks open.

Oh, I swear to god if this is that one with the undergarments...."Fuck off," I snap.

"I see that they haven't managed to dress the attitude yet."

I freeze.

A familiar shape steps into the dressing room, the door quietly closing behind him.

I refuse to turn.

So instead, I stare at him in the dressing room mirror.

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