Page 8 of Mafia Captor

I’m havinga hard time believing this is my life as Mr. Robert pulls up to my new place. A new job, a new place, a new driver, a new Ashely. I thank him as he opens the car door for me, a true gentleman.

I have to walk through the main door of the club to get to my apartment. The bouncer lets me in, directing me to a door on the right. I walk through the throng of bodies, the thrum of the loud music vibrating through me as I find my way.

There’s a security guard at the door, an earpiece tucked in his ear. “Miss Ashely?”

“Yes?”

“Welcome home.” He opens the door with a smile. “Someone will be here twenty-four seven to serve you. When the club is closed, we’ll still be here to let you in.”

“Thank you.” There’s a set of steps in front of me. I give a little start as the door closes behind me. I’m surprised at how much noise is blocked out. There’s a second door at the top of the stairs, a keypad to open it.

Did Tess mention a code?

My phone dings, a four-digit number appearing on my screen. Hmm… it must be for the door. I punch the number in, and sure enough the door opens.

I step inside. Am I in a movie? It’s gorgeous.

The place has an industrial feel to it, black pipes running along the length of the ceiling high above my head. The bedroom is massive, and a spa-like bathroom awaits my pre-work morning shower. It’s quiet, the thumping music a distant hum.

Forget the chamomile tea. I treat myself to a generous pour of chilled Prosecco. This apartment calls for a toast.

I hold my wineglass up to Giorgio Armani. “Here’s to our new place, G! We made it to Manhattan.”

He offers a bored yawn, stretching out across our sunflower-yellow leather sofa.

“I thought you’d be more excited after binge-watchingSex in the Citylast time we were in between jobs.” He eyes me while delicately licking a paw.

I sink into the sofa beside him, stroking his soft white fur. He nestles against me, offering a rumbling purr as we take in our new abode. The movers positioned the sofa against the exposed brick wall, facing the window that offers a view of the city.

Everything’s been arranged just as I would have done it myself. My clothes have even been unpacked, organized just as I had them at my other place.

“Home sweet home.” I give my kitty a pat and flip on the television for him. I’m relieved to find all my services are already up and running. G gets cranky when he can’t catch up on his housewives drama.

My phone rests on the cushion beside me. Taunting me. Begging me to finally see what those exploding hearts are all about. After I saw that I had a match, I didn’t have the guts to check out my potential date.

The open wine bottle sits on my spotless glass coffee table, icy in a marble chiller. I pour myself a second drink. When I’m halfway through the glass, I’m feeling loose enough to open the message and view my match.

I click on the app. A little pink cupid with gold sparkly wings pops up, a banner trailing behind him, telling me that someone has “shot an arrow at me.” A little red arrow appears on the screen, saying,Click Mein big gold letters.

Holy… cow… I must be getting catfished because the picture of the man looking back at me is so darn handsome, I doubt he’s real. I swear my panties are starting to melt.

Ashely,

Pleasure to “meet” you. I enjoyed your profile and found we had many similarities. I have a proposal for you. I’m due at a family function next weekend and I’m in desperate need of a date. My mother’s day would be made if I arrived with you on my arm, and I have to say, it would make my day as well. Have a look at my profile and see if you think we might be compatible.

Um…mmmkay…

A gentleman, loves his mama, and looks like he just climbed down from Mount Olympus? What’s the catch?

I flip through his photos. Standing among other gorgeous men he resembles, fishing off docks, sailing on boats, his tanned skin exposed as he gives a shirtless smile. I recognize some of the faces.

Where do I know these people from? A little tickle dances at the back of my mind, a vague memory of an article I read last year about the father of a prestigious Boston family passing away. The answer comes to me, bringing with it that relief like a sneeze finally coming out.

He’s aSullivan.The family is like royalty in New England. Their lives are often covered by gossip magazines. They’re all rich. Powerful. And gorgeous.

I’m intimidated, my belly flopping as I scan the beautiful photos. Do I have what it takes to make small talk at an event filled with important people?

Wait—I’ve been rubbing shoulders with the Bachmans for years. I know how to handle myself around the mafia. I think I can handle some normal, old-money people.

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