Page 45 of Christmas with the Mafia
I falter, throwing a little humanity into my smile. “So you’ll help me?”
She nods, a soft blush stealing across her pretty face.
“It’s the least I can do, Nico. You have been so kind to me, and I would be honored to give something back in return.”
“It will be hard.”
“In what way?”
“We must act as if we are deeply in love. It’s the only way.”
“I can do that.”
She rubs her thumb on my cheek and stares at me as if I’m her one true love.
“Just tell me what to do and I’ll be the perfect girlfriend. People like me. I’m quite sociable really, and I’m sure your father will be no exception.”
Her confident speech is meaningless in our world because the only thing my father likes is winning the game.
“There is a problem.”
“What problem?”
“The woman my father wants me to marry will be there too with her family.”
She blinks—several times—and takes a deep breath. “Okaaaay.”
A little of the light dims in her eyes, and then she shakes her head and smiles. “It’s fine. I can be a good actress if I put my mind to it. You know, I was quite the entertainer at school, and many times I played the lead role, well, the onesnobody else wanted, anyway. I did my best then and I’ll do my best now, so honey, you’ve got yourself a woman who is madly, deeply and crazily in love with you and won’t care who knows it.”
As she smiles happily, I wonder if that smile will falter when she realizes exactly what loving me will involve. That will have to wait until we get there because nothing is going to stop her accompanying me home because the stakes are too high and failure is not an option—for either of us.
Twenty-Three
REGINA
“It’s an impossible task.”
I stare around me at the chaotic scene with a sinking heart.
Bags, boxes, tissue paper and every accessory under the sun fill the rather enormous closet that is surely every woman’s dream.
Nico is ripping stuff out of its packaging and thrusting it onto the shelves, and it’s an amusing sight to see the rather surly man holding scraps of lingerie in his hands and stuffing them into drawers without a care.
“We’ll get it done, and then you must pack for a three-day stay.”
He fixes me with a determined gaze. “Consider everything, breakfast, lunch, dinner, walks in the grounds, cocktail evenings and a smart outfit for Christmas and Boxing day.”
“It sounds–” I groan, “exhausting.”
I picture the way I was intending to spend Christmas, which acts as a huge wake-up call.
“Oh my God!”
“What?”
“Quincy. I completely forgot to return her call, and she must be worrying if I’m still alive.”
He shrugs. “Then call her.”
