Marrying the Mob Prince

INDIE

“A billionaire comes along, asks you out, and you turn him down?” My sister facepalmed the table, groaning. “You’re killing me, Smalls!”

Claire and I sat in the Starbucks on the ground floor of the building where I worked, enjoying a quick lunch before I returned to my office. Claire propped her rain boots on a chair, her tiny frame engulfed in a large, creamy sweater. She channeled our ball-busting mother in a pint-sized form, her pixie face working to conceal disappointment.

“It’s hard to explain, Claire.”

“Is he a fuckboy?”

I shook my head, unable to put Knox’s overwhelming presence into words. “I’m not sure there’s a label for him.”

“A girl’s got to have standards. But I can’t imagine how Bryan Knox can’t meet them,” she teased, bumping her elbow into mine. “Getting his number must’ve been a huge compliment.”

I shrugged, sipping my lukewarm latte.

Claire leaned forward, brows furrowing as though concerned for my mental health. “Indie, you won’t get another chance with a man like this. If you don’t call, he’ll move on to the next babe.”

Well aware.

Men like him rarely crossed my path, but I was a realist. How long would I hold his interest after sleeping with him? An hour? Five minutes? I had no guarantee I’d enjoy myself. In my experience, cocky men disappointed in bed.

And I didn’t have the time to humor Bryan Knox. I had bills to pay. A lackluster career to ramp up. An imploding personal life because I worked day and night until my eyes couldn’t stay open. My friendships hung by a thread. Romance could wait until I took care of myself.

Isn’t a hot date exactly that?

I snatched Knox’s business card that lay between us like a sacred object. Its stiff corners pricked my thumb as I assessed its worth. Thick and textured. Expensive. I traced the raised print of “Knox,” my finger catching on the K. He didn’t bother including his first name. He wasn’t worried about people forgetting him.

I sure as hell wasn’t going to.

All weekend, I’d thought of little else. As I finished my profile, his hand seemed to warm my back. His hunter stare sought me out in the darkness during those late hours. I heard his voice, rumbling in that deep baritone with a trace of Southie that he’d almost eradicated. Sometimes-often-I imagined opening his shirt and uncovering his muscled physique.

I snapped out of the whirlwind of inappropriate thoughts as my sister gloated with a knowing grin. “He’s a distraction,” I told her.

“He said you could be his future wife.”

That’s right.

Heat tingled my cheeks at his bold words. I’d been too shocked to do anything but stammer a goodbye before Knox’s assistant shooed me away. Since then, I’d blocked it out. I was a romantic and got attached too easily, so I’d laughed it off, even though my heart begged me to take him seriously.

What if he was?

A hot flush claimed my neck at that intimidating prospect. “It was a pick-up line. We barely talked to each other.”

“So? He feels a connection with you.”

I snorted. “No, he doesn’t. He says that to every girl.”

“Oh, come on. Give the man a chance!”

Easy for her to say. She didn’t know what it was like to meet his indecent glare and try not to squirm. I’d seen that predatory look on men’s faces dozens of times before, and it never boded well.

“It would make a heck of a story,” she egged on, grabbing my forearm. “Think about the experiences you could have.”

“But you hate him.”

She waved a flippant hand. “I’d overlook that for one, maybe two dates. And then I’d bring up composting.”

I smiled, imagining Knox and my assertive sister heading off. Before Claire went to college, she spent her free time heckling city council members to mandate compost bins throughout Boston. She was a humanitarian with a fervor for recycling. She’d already chewed out the poor Starbucks cashier for using plastic straws. I admired her passion, but I couldn’t worry about the planet on top of everything else.

“He seems like an interesting guy, but I don’t know. He’s intense.”

“You can hold your own.”

“Sure, until I do something he doesn’t like, and he ruins my career.” I slid his card inside my wallet. “Anyway, how long is your break from school?”

Claire’s smile fell as she picked up her fork and stabbed into her salad. “A couple of months.”

“A couple of months?”

“I’m withdrawing for this semester,” she admitted, pink staining her cheeks. “I nearly flunked out.”

Shock flew through me. The idea of my type-A sister falling behind seemed absurd.

“Geez, Claire. What happened?”

“I got involved with people I shouldn’t have.” Her gaze dipped to her lap and she shook her head. “Stoners. Party animals. Turns out it’s a lot more fun to smoke pot and hit the slopes than to go to your classes.”

“You busted your ass to get accepted there!”

“I know. I feel like a jerk.” Claire twisted a strand of her blond hair, which contrasted flawlessly with her tanned skin. “But I’m not sure if Colorado is for me. They don’t have a decent environmental studies program. I was thinking of transferring to Bourton.”

“That’ll be tough, Claire.” I checked my phone, wincing. “I have to get back to work. Do you want me to call you an Uber?”

“I’ll catch my own ride.”

We stood from the table and hugged.

“Well, it’ll be nice to have you around again. I’ve missed you, Claire Bear.”

“You, too.” Her dainty hands cinched my waist as her voice dropped. “Don’t tell Mom and Dad, okay?”

“All right.”

Claire disengaged from me and gathered our salads, dumping the containers in the wrong bin. Then she seemed to realize her mistake and reached into the trash.

I shook my head and left Starbucks. I took the elevator upstairs. I worked at Vanity, a website featuring news and cultural commentary geared toward women. It paid little, but it was my first writing job out of college. The interview with Knox would be a featured article, and it had to be perfect.

I strolled to the end of the hallway. The glass doors stamped with a fading white Vanity opened with a loud groan as I pushed hard, stumbling into a small office. I’d barely sat at my desk when Eliot swooped over, a mug dangling from his long fingers.

Eliot, my managing editor, was a string bean of a man. Tall and lean with milky skin and strawberry blond hair. His bowed lips softened his masculine features. He kept his hair buzzed short except for the top of his head, which he combed to the side. Despite the gold wrapping his left ring finger, he was a huge flirt.

“Morning, Indie.” Eliot shot me an indecent smile. “I read your profile. Good stuff. Christine sent it back with edits.”

I’d already turned on my laptop and clicked the email. I opened the document, frowning at the red lines.

“Why is so much of it crossed out?”

“Yeah, uh, Knox got in touch. He wanted to go over it before it went live.” The soft creases on his face tensed, as though building himself up to deliver bad news. “He wasn’t happy with it.”

I bristled. “Since when do we care?”

“Bryan Knox is a big deal.”

“So? He’s not my boss.”

“With his connections, he might as well be.”

Horror bottomed out my stomach as I peeled my eyes from the computer. “Did he threaten you?”

“Not quite.” Eliot grimaced, rolling the pink Ralph Lauren polo to his elbows. “His lawyers were on the call, but Knox was polite. Said it would be in my best interest and that he’d return the favor.”

“Why wasn’t I at this meeting?” I scanned the document, scowling at the changes. “He removed every detail of his background, even the description of his old apartment!”

“Trust me, nothing would’ve changed his mind.”

Perhaps my presence might’ve stopped Eliot from accepting Knox’s offer. I glowered at the screen instead of Eliot, my palms sweating as I clicked through the profile.

“There’s no substance to this piece. It reads like a fawning mess!” I whirled around, facing Eliot. “We can’t let him do this!”

Eliot shrugged. “I don’t need that tyrant’s wrath hanging over my head. The man’s vicious. If I don’t do what he wants, he’ll bury us in legal fees for years.”All rights © NôvelDrama.Org.

“Malicious lawsuits should be a crime.”

Eliot’s hand rolled over my shoulder. The unwelcome touch sent a shudder through me.

“You’re a talented writer, Indie. There will be other opportunities.” Sourness pitted my stomach as his patronizing tone lifted with excitement. “Anyway, Knox invited you to his gala. It’s this Wednesday. I’d like you to attend.”

“Why the hell should I?”

“Ask him follow-up questions for the profile’s new direction. We could go together,” he suggested, lifting one of his shoulders. “Deborah isn’t in town, so she can’t make it.”

“Fine. I’ll ask him to explain why he overruled my judgment like an overgrown child.”

Eliot’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

He left, leaving his empty mug on my desk. My guts clenched. I turned back to the document littered with Knox’s comments, seething.

Pretentious dick.

I’d give the tyrant a piece of my mind.

He wasn’t getting away with this.

* * *

Knox sponsored the annual Boston Art Show, an over-the-top party on a boat where tickets cost thousands of dollars. He’d hired a celebrity to host the art auction. I couldn’t think of anything more obnoxious than drunk rich people bidding on overpriced paintings while aboard a yacht, and yet, it attracted every socialite and techbro on the East Coast.

The rumors didn’t quite do the barrels of Dom Perignon justice, or the staff wearing rhinestone-encrusted bodysuits, or that The Weeknd rapped into a microphone.

I stood next to my boss in a black, plunging neckline gown with tiered ruffles over a lace skirt. I’d rented a designer dress just to fit in, but I looked like a joke beside the star-studded guest list. My toes curled from the cold. They’d made everyone remove their shoes-something about not scratching the teak deck.

“Eliot, I wanted to talk to you about a potential story.”

He sucked on his vape pen before answering. “You’re supposed to pitch ideas to the team.”

“They voted against it.”

“Then I’m afraid that’s the end of it.”

“I interviewed five girls from the old MC compound in Chelsea claiming they were fed drugs and coerced into prostitution at an underground club in Boston. One of them went missing. This needs to be in Vanity. This is the sort of groundbreaking journalism I live for, not ‘Ten Health Benefits of Quinoa.'”

Eliot made a noncommittal sound as he drifted toward the table of hors d’oeuvres, picking up a plate of caviar.

“This is important to me,” I persisted.

“I appreciate that, but we’re a women’s news website. Our target demographic is white suburban moms who self-medicate with Percocet and rose. They’re looking for directions to the strawberry festival or the latest Kanye gossip. An escape. The last thing they want to read is a human trafficking story.”

“Trafficking is relevant to women!”

“Yes, but we get revenue through clicks. Depressing stories are off-brand.” He patted my back, his brown eyes crinkling with amusement. “Leave the heavy stuff to the New York Times, eh?”

Condescending ass. “Fine. I’ll shop the story somewhere else.”

“You signed a non-compete clause.”

I glowered as he turned his attention to the food, dreaming of the day I’d be able to write what I wanted without a man’s input. This exchange reminded me of when I’d first been hired. Vanity’s tagline-Stories by women, for women-gave me an incomplete picture. Written by women, chosen by men was more accurate. The managing editor, our CEO, and senior staff editors all had penises.

I would quit, but the non-compete agreement prevented me from getting another job for twelve months. Not working for a year would bankrupt me, so I was stuck at this place.

“You’re mad at me for saying no, aren’t you?”

My jaw tensed before I forced myself to smile. “Of course not.”

Eliot chuckled, exhaling vapor from his perfect, almost too pretty lips. “You sound just like my wife when she’s giving me the cold shoulder.”

Ugh. Not again.

I laughed, playing it off like a joke. “I’m going to mingle.”

“Go for it.”

I seized my glass and shot for the bar. Drinks were eighteen dollars and Vanity’s expense budget didn’t allow for more than two, but I’d need at least three more to get through rejecting my married boss’s advances.

Where the hell was Knox?

He wasn’t among the champagne-swilling techbros and I couldn’t imagine him on the dance floor, which begged the question-why did he throw this party in the first place?

I searched for him everywhere. Either he’d found a superb hiding spot or someone had thrown him overboard. I needed to get away from the club beats shaking the deck. I drifted to the stern, which was roped off and unlit, and gazed into the violent churn of water.

“You’re not supposed to be out here.”

That voice.

Low and deeply masculine. I wanted to drown in that velvety growl. I turned and gasped as a tall, beautiful, dark-haired man towered above me.

Knox.