Page 1 of Malicious Marriage
1
CLOVER
Breathe, Clover. Just keep breathing.
It plays like a mantra in my head. In and out. In and out.
Below my feet, the floor vibrates with the intense pounding beat of the music carrying through the party. Each time the music lulls and the playlist switches songs, the drunken voices of tipsy people churn together into a wordless noise that’s very quickly swallowed by the next song.
And then the next.
Maybe coming here was a mistake. It was a terrible idea. A stupid, reckless idea that has no chance in hell of actually working out the way I need it to.
Three nights ago when I was planning on how to sneak into this party, it felt like the greatest idea I’d ever had. Rely on the rapid way people always get drunk at a party like this to sneak in through the kitchens and act like I belong here. What could go wrong? Nothing makes people blinder than a celebration, and the majority of the guests downstairs hardly need a reason to pick up a bottle.
But now I’m here and my heart won’t stop racing.
Walking through the crowd felt like everyone could tell that I didn’t belong here, as if even my perfume betrayed that I was the only penniless one in the room. I tried to keep my head held high while looking for my target, but after one too many alcohol-laced questions shoved in my face by drunken party-goers, I needed a break.
This office is exactly the quiet space I need, and I’ve been in here, nestled into a thick leather chair that likely cost more than my entire year’s rent, trying to catch my breath.
“In and out, Clover,” I whisper to myself, testing to see if the sound of my own voice makes me feel less alone. It doesn’t. It sounds strained and alien to my own ears, which only makes my anxiety worse.
This was such astupididea.
I need to call Bobby. He needs to get me out of here.
As I reach into my purse for my phone, anxious tears quickly flood my eyes and blur the location of the bag’s zipper. I fumble for it, blinking quickly, but just as I locate it, the handle on the door behind me clicks and the door swings wide open.
Golden light floods into the dark office, illuminating the ceiling-high bookshelves that rest against the wall across from me, framing a gigantic rectangular window draped in black curtains that become deep red in the light. Outside, a nearby tree sways in the gentle May breeze with its golden leaves kissing the window pane.
My breath catches in my throat. It’s one thing to sneak away from a party I’m not supposed to be at and hide in a room that I’mdefinitelynot supposed to be in. It’s another thing to be caught.
I don’t breathe. I don’t move.
I don’t even blink.
A deep, tired sigh escapes the tall, bulky man who steps into the room and seemingly doesn’t see me. The light from thehallway illuminates him as he trudges past me and walks deeper into the office with his head down. One hand rises and drags his fingers through the thick, neatly arranged curls covering his head. He makes it to the large oak desk at the far end of the room just as the door closes, and the office once again returns to its calming darkness.
Although it’s no longer calm.
There’s now a stranger in here with me and the longer this drags out without me voicing my presence, the more awkward this is going to be. I blink and two fat tears finally escape my eyelashes. My lips part and a trembling word rises in my throat, but before I can urge it past my lips, the man turns on the floral desk lamp and trudges around the desk until he’s aligned with the large, comfortable-looking leather chair. As he turns, his face finally catches the light and all thought of talking vanishes from my mind.
Holy fucking shit.
It’s Dean Savoy!
The very man I came here to see.
There’s no way he’s here. There’s no way that’sreallyhim!
But it is.
His unmistakable rugged handsomeness is unmatched by anyone else I’ve ever seen in my entire life. A trimmed, well-oiled brown beard with several dashing streaks of silver hugs his golden olive jaw. He yawns briefly as he sits, enhancing the deep laughter lines around the corner of his mouth and twinkling blue eyes. He might be one of the only Mafia kings in the entire city who deserves to be on the cover of GQ, attached to an article on how to age gracefully and still remain as hot as he was in his twenties. The pictures were legendary when I was at school.
The Savoys are basically Mafia royalty with how long they’ve controlled major parts of the city… and how good their genes are.
Which makes why I’m here even worse. The chances of this going the way I need it to are slim to none. I should have drunk more before I came up here. I didn’t plan on catching Dean in his office, though. On the drive here, I entertained all the casual ways I could bump into him with a drink or an hors d’oeuvre. I rehearsed how to make the conversation seem natural and how to get him alone when every other soul at this party is vying for his attention.
