Page 90 of Corrupted Empire

Alexis

“Stop freaking out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“You’re absolutely freaking out.” Clara bats a pretzel out of my hand and glares down at me. “You’re practically vibrating. Just chill a little.”

“Chill a little?” I mutter. “The spotlight is going to be on me tonight. What if I make an ass out of myself in front of everyone? All Gabriel’s men? All their wives?”

Clara goes to the closet and pulls out the garment bag with my new dress in it. It arrived yesterday, a gift from Gabriel. I haven’t tried it on yet, but I know it will fit perfectly. Gabriel will have had it made for my measurements.

“I wish you were going,” I say.

“Why would I be going?” Clara turns away from me to hide the blush on her pale cheeks. “It’s not like I’m married to any of Gabriel’s men.”

I snicker. “No, but at this rate, you could be.”

Clara hangs the dress over the closet door and removes the wrapping, fingering the delicate green silk. “Shut up. Angelo’s not a capo, so he wouldn’t have been invited anyway.”

“He might be a capo one day,” I say in a singsong voice.

Clara, who has grown more and more comfortable with the Mafia lifestyle, shrugs—but there is a hopeful gleam in her eyes.

There’s a knock on the door, and I bolt out of my seat. “That’ll be Sandra,” I say.

“Sandra? Who the hell is Sandra?”

Before Clara can get too jealous, I pause at the door and wink at her. “My stylist.”

Sandra bustles into the room in a cloud of strawberry-scented perfume. She looks exactly the same as she did when I last saw her, when she made me up before the fundraiser where I first met Patrick Walsh. Every inch of her five-five frame is primped and polished—glossy chestnut curls, a perfect, even tan, and a set of teeth so white I have to squint to look at them.

“It’s good to see you, darling,” she greets jovially. “Where should I get set up?”

I sit at the desk and wait as Sandra lays out her hair and makeup tools around me. Clara sits on the bed and watches with a wistful smile, and I would bet anything she’s picturing her own future pampering session at the hands of Sandra.

My cell phone rings, and I go to silence it. Then I see who’s calling.

I look up at Clara and frown. “It’s Debbie.”

“Really?” Clara cocks her head a little. “Are you going to get it?”

“Should I?” The last time I talked to Debbie, we both threatened each other. She followed through on hers. I didn’t.

Clara shrugs, but I know that I’ll only wonder if I don’t answer, so I pick up the phone.

“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again so soon,” I say. “If you’re calling to blackmail me again, it won’t work.”

“Aye, I figured that after it didn’t work the last time,” she comments grimly. “I come in peace.”

Sandra starts brushing through my hair, and I grimace as she savagely drags the bristles through the knots at the back. “Peace? I’m not even sure you know what that word means.”

Debbie has been a constant antagonist and occasional friend since I first started working at theNew York Unionaround three years ago. I used to take the stairs up to my office to avoid walking past her desk. The woman can be a nightmare.

“Well, it’s certainly not the first word in my vocabulary,” she admits.

“So, what do you want?”

Sandra starts curling my hair, apparently not bothered at all that my phone is obscuring half of my head.

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