Christmas with the Mafia

Chapter 1

One

REGINA

I have never looked so good. It’s probably because I am glowing inside. There is a very good reason for that too; Connor is going to propose. I just know it.

It’s a feeling, a warm premonition and a silent promise that passes between us when our eyes connect.

I’ve waited five long years for this ever since we collided on the subway and his limbs tangled in mine. It was love at first punch, and the black eye I received courtesy of his flying fist merely became an amusing anecdote we reminisced on every anniversary.

Some call Connor complacent with my emotions. I brush their comments aside because I have never met anybody who intrigues me as much as he does.

I’ve dropped enough hints over the years, stopping outside Tiffany with a wistful sigh as I pointed with excitement at the diamond rings.

He never said anything, but there was always a gleam in his eye as if he was holding a secret, and that’s why I’m convinced tonight will be that night because we are heading to the Diamond gala in upstate New York.

Connor invited me as his plus one, and he has never done that before.

To be honest, I wondered if he really worked for Viper Holdings at all. He said he did, but I have never seen any evidence of that. Until now. Until tonight, when he invited me to mix with the elite of New York at a star-studded gala run by his boss, the elusive viper himself, Nicholas Ravera.

I know little about him other that he’s a bastard to work for and rather belligerent. Connor holds him in awe, but I hold men like that in contempt.

I’m lucky because I work for myself. I am an entrepreneur who sells gift baskets online to my ever-increasing customer base.

To be perfectly honest, I really don’t have time for this because it’s Christmas and I’m snowed under with stuffing and ribbons. But it’s the Diamond gala. I would be a fool to turn this one down, and ever the professional, I am filming it for my vlog.

As I cast a critical gaze at my reflection, I suppress a smug smile.

I look good in silver. Sequins and mesh just about cover the important parts of me, and I moisturized silver glitter on the exposed areas of skin because I am embracing the new trend of naked dressing.

Only the merest wisps of fabric conceal my important areas, and I look and feel amazing.

My dark hair is piled high on top of my head, studded with diamonds, and my fake eyelashes brush against my cheeks that are dusted with silver glitter.

I am a walking bauble, a Christmas fairy on top of the tree, and I am lucky that my smokey gray eyes naturally complement my outfit because if they didn’t, I would have forked out for contacts.

The effect is stunning, if I do say so myself, and now all I need is Prince Charming to come and offer me his hand—literally.

My phone buzzes.

Hey babe. Change of plan. I can’t make it.

Wait what?

I stare at the phone in confusion.

This can’t be right. He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. What the…

I type back.

Are you running late? I could meet you there.

It takes a moment for him to reply, and my stomach is in knots as I anticipate a major let down of the cruelest kind.

No, I’ve caught COVID. I’m isolating myself. Sorry, at least you’ll be able to work some more. It’s a blessing in disguise.

My fingers shake as I type.

Since when have you been feeling unwell? It may just be a cold.

All week. I took a test. It’s confirmed.

I am trying so hard to be the caring girlfriend right now, but why wait until he’s late? It doesn’t make sense.

Guilt claws at my disappointment, reminding me he is ill, and I type,

Would you like me to come over?

NO!

I blink at the shouty capitals.

I can see he is typing, and then his reply mellows a little.

I’m sorry, honey, I don’t want to give it to you this close to Christmas. It would be commercial suicide for you.

He does make a valid point, but really—this late to tell me he can’t come.

I’ve got to go. It has taken all my energy just to type this message. I must sleep now. Pray for me.

I blink back my tears, ashamed that the only prayer I’ll be offering right now is to God to rustle up Prince Charming for me with another invitation to the ball. I can’t believe my luck.

How is it possible to go from euphoria to despair in the blink of a heavily silver-glittered eyelash?

I wander over to the small window overlooking the narrow alleyway outside. The streetlamp compounds my misery when I notice the flurry of snowflakes pressing against the rather grubby glass.

I’m tempted to rest my weary head against it but mindful of hygiene, I make a mental note to clean the window first thing in the morning.

With a despairing sigh, I move away and perch on the edge of the couch, my phone hanging limply in my silver–painted fingers.

I am so proud of my appearance—the ice queen no less–and yet inside my heart is breaking into thin shards of emotional despair.

Out of desperation, I type a message to Quincy.

Connor’s got COVID. Cinderella cannot go to the ball.

Her response is immediate.

WTF? And he’s only telling you now?

Quincy is my best friend and the person who knows everything about me, even more than my mother who prefers to turn a blind eye to my rather strange life.

You’re still going though, right?

Her response is rapid, and I sigh, a huge lump in my throat as I blink my tears away.

No, I don’t have an invitation without Connor.

A few seconds later, her reply comes through.

So what? Your name will be on the door. Head over there and demand they let you in. Say he told you to meet him there because he is running late.

I’m not that brave.

Seriously, I’m not because the thought of rocking up to the finest hotel in New York solo is giving me hives already.

Another message comes through.

We’re on our way. You shall go to the ball whether you agree or not.

I stare at the screen, a faint smile touching my lips as I picture my friend tugging on her snow boots and ski suit at the mere premise of a snow shower.

She will be yelling to Aston, her long-suffering boyfriend, to fire up the yellow cab, courtesy of the fact he gets to take his work home and park it in the road opposite their small condo.

Aston has been a cab driver for as long as I’ve known him, and that’s how they met.

Quincy staggered into his cab with arms full of bargain buys from the Macy’s blowout sale, and apparently it was love at first sight for both of them.

She bagged more than a bargain that day and subsequently travels by cab all around New York, Aston deeming the subway as too dangerous for a woman of her substance.

I picture them now on the way over here and know there is only ten minutes at best not to freak the fuck out.

I can’t do this. It would be the single most scariest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

I am not a confident woman, which is why I live most of the time contained within these four walls.

Packing my gift baskets and playing for the camera, pretending I’m cool, chic and have it all, rather than a mountain of anxiety at what lies outside my door.

I physically can’t do this. I’m nauseous at the mere thought of it, and my heart is beating hard inside me as I drown in my own anxiety and wish I hadn’t told Quincy at all.