Page 90 of Dirty Mafia King
“That was easy.”
She grinned. “I used names they’re familiar with.”
My fists clench even now that we’re inside. The reminder I’m posing as one woman within Bastian’s revolving three-packs keeps my jealousy alive and thriving.
“Vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry?” a butler hired for the evening asks. My fingers are numb, I clench them so tight.
Three baskets sit on the credenza on the right wall.
“Wigs,” Zoey exclaims, dashing forward and plucking out a short red bob cut. “I considered going red. What do you think?” She fixes the wig over her hair and tucks her brunette locks beneath it. Readjusting her mask, she’s totally unrecognizable.
It’s a gift. A blessing we won’t be discovered.
Still, I’m livid.
I snatch a long bleach blond wig and arrange it over my blond locks.
Zoey protests. “Aren’t you tempted to select a different color? Why not try brunette? That wig’s too close to your original hair color.”
I offer her a shrug. “Blondes have more fun.” Says the shy wallflower who has lost her mind. Because the tiniest, most reckless part of me hopes Bastian might recognize me. And then what?
She stares at me like I’ve tugged on an alien head. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re acting strange.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Where did sweet Alessia go?”
I shift on my heels, and fake blond locks brush against my hips. “I’m still sweet, but tonight my name’s Sugar.”
She claps her hands. “And I’ll be Spice.”
From behind us, a man’s whistle startles us.
We turn, and I immediately recognize Bastian’s associate, a minor capo from the MidAtlantic, a few feet away. He gestures. Our eyes lock, and fear races through me. Lord, please don’t recognize me.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
“Shit,” Zoey says beneath her breath. “He means you.”
I grab Zoey’s elbow, and we hurry away. But the man follows us down the hall. “Mark my words. Bastian will fucking wreck her before the night’s over.”
“Holy fuck, did you hear that?” Zoey hisses as we enter the great room.
“No.”
“Let’s go before Mr. Beneventi wrecks you.”
A shudder racing through me, my eyes skim the room in search of the man who’ll be my complete and utter destruction. What I find instead turns my stomach.
Zoey gasps. “It’s freaking four o’clock everywhere you look.”
Women have gathered in threes based on hair color. Some wear expensive gowns half-pulled down and hitched beneath an exposed breast. Others are barely dressed in sexy lingerie and high heels. A few sport G-strings and nothing else.
Most men wear expensive designer suits; dressy pants and jackets but no shirts, ties, or shoes.
My gaze falls on the human tables, the men and women on hands and knees, naked, frozen in position, with trays of champagne perched on their backs.
And people are fucking. Beneath my favorite painting and over by the bar, in groups or with partners.
