Mistletoe Masquerade (The Moretti Men #2.5)

Chapter 1

SACHI

“You want to hang out in a ballroom … full of cops?” Sante Mancini stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. Of course, he would see it that way. He’s in the Mafia, after all.

“Not just cops—masked cops … in tuxedos!” I grin wickedly, enjoying his discomfort.

Teasing him is so much more fun now that I know him better.

In the past few months, I’ve become good friends with his wife, Amelie, who I met through my best friend Dani.

The three of us girls are always together these days, which means I see their husbands quite a bit, as well.

Sante grimaces. “Doesn’t sound like a Christmas party to me. More like a Halloween nightmare.”

Before I can reply, Tommy jumps in. “But you were raised Buddhist, right? Buddhists don’t celebrate Christmas.” Tommy is Dani’s husband. He often sees things in black and white, so explaining the intricacies of culture and religion isn’t something I’m delving into right now.

“My parents are Buddhist. That doesn’t mean I can’t love all things Christmas,” I offer vaguely, then turn back to Sante. “Which includes the annual policeman’s ball when said ball is going to be a fancy holiday masquerade with glittery decorations in a gorgeous hotel ballroom.”

“That ballroom can be fancy as fuck, but it’s still gonna stink like a barn if it’s full of pigs.”

Amelie smacks his chest indignantly. “Hey! Not all cops are bad. Quit raining on her parade.”

He gapes at his wife with a petulant innocence, as though he has no idea what he did to deserve her reprisal. The sight makes me chuckle.

“It’s fine, Amelie. He can think whatever he wants.

It doesn’t change my opinion that it would be fun to finally attend one of these fancy parties instead of delivering food and leaving.

The occupation of the other guests is irrelevant.

And this event is a masquerade ball, so it would be even easier to pretend I’m just another guest.”

“I think you should go for it,” Dani chimes in. “It’s not like they’re going to arrest you for crashing the party.”

“Agreed,” Amelie says. “And like I said, they’re not all bad. Malone is a good guy.”

“Yes!” Dani’s eyes widen. “And he is seriously pretty to look at. I can only imagine him in a tux.”

Both men make faces as though they’ve just swallowed a spoonful of mud.

Sante raises his hand. “Hold up. Calling him a good guy is awfully generous. Let’s just say he’s not a total asshat.”

I ignore Sante and grin at the girls. “A few months back, Sante took me home, and on the way, he stopped at the police station. He met up with a man in front of the building, and the guy was one yummy piece of man candy. I stayed in the car but could see the two of them. The guy had blond hair and a body that would make Superman weep. Is that him?”

“That’s him,” Amelie agrees. “A man-dy cane, if you will?”

All three of us girls burst into a fit of giggles while the guys roll their eyes.

“Seriously, Mel?” her husband groans.

She shrugs with a wry grin. “It’s true. He’s an absolute snack.” She’s getting a rise out of goading her husband, and he’s too naturally possessive not to take the bait.

“I suppose if you like a Goody Two-Shoes who thinks his shit don’t stink,” Sante grumbles.

Tommy glares at his friend. “You’re the one who practically has the guy on speed dial. Wouldn’t be surprised if you sent him a Christmas card.”

“Oh, now I gotta hear it from you, too. Is that it? Like you’ve never called the guy for a favor.”

“A reciprocal swap of information isn’t a favor,” Tommy points out plainly.

“Poh-tay-to, poh-tah-to, Tommy. You needed intel, and he agreed to an exchange. Same difference.”

I can tell Tommy wants to argue over the distinction in that technical way of his, but Amelie cuts him off.

“Sach, I think you should do it. And if you need a dress, I’ll ask my sister if she’s got anything you can borrow. They do samples for the holiday season ages in advance. I’m sure she’s got something lying around.”

Her sister is a badass fashion designer with her own label. As a sculptor, I’m an avid supporter of all the arts. Wearing one of Lina’s dresses would be a dream come true.

“Oh my God. That would be incredible.”

Amelie and Dani both clap their hands like giddy schoolgirls as a radiant grin splits my face.

At times like this, I wonder how I got so lucky to be a part of this makeshift family.

It’s a feeling I’ve never fully experienced.

Not only are my parents on the opposite coast in California but having emigrated from Japan before I was born, they’ve always been difficult for me to relate to.

Finding a sense of belonging here in New York has filled my heart with joy.

“I’m so doing this. Help me get an outfit, and I’ll pretend I’m diplomatic royalty for a night, even if it means wearing a borrowed dress and changing in a grimy staff bathroom.”

Amelie holds up her phone. “Commence Operation Mistletoe Masquerade.” She dials her sister’s number while I wiggle in my chair, and the guys both shake their heads before downing the rest of their drinks.

Those Scrooges can bah, humbug all they want.

This Santa’s elf is going undercover for a night of festive mischief…

My watermelons are displayed on a table alongside artfully arranged assortments of peeled and cubed fruit.

My sole responsibility is to carve the requested food items as specified and deliver them to the party.

In this case, I carved poinsettias into the face of three large watermelons.

I made sure they looked spectacular at one of the finger-food stations set up around the enormous ballroom, each supplied with row upon row of bubbling champagne flutes to ensure guests enjoyed themselves to the fullest.

The hotel has outfitted the room with glittering red-and-gold Christmas decor, along with a fully decked-out tree that stands at least fifteen feet tall. The white lights peeking from between ball ornaments and bows twinkle nearly as bright as the crystal sconces and chandeliers.

The room is a breathtaking holiday fantasy come to life.

I can’t wait to get back in there now that I’ve changed out of my uniform and into my gown. I never dreamed I’d get the opportunity to wear something so luxurious when Amelie suggested calling her sister. I knew she designed clothing, but this gown belongs in another dimension.

Worthy of Mount Olympus, it’s elegant and ethereal.

Crafted of white chenille, the fabric is as smooth and flawless as freshly fallen snow.

The one-shoulder design hugs my chest while draping gently down at my hips and acting as the perfect canvas for embroidered artistry unlike any I’ve ever seen—a cascade of vibrant red poinsettia flowers with forest green leaves from my shoulder, across my chest, and down the opposite side to the skirt hem.

The appliqué blooms are accented with intricate stitching and a smattering of beads—enough to give the gown depth and sparkle, but not so much to weigh it down.

Add to it a white velvet mask with a matching poinsettia garnish, and I feel like a Christmas queen.

And that’s precisely who I am tonight.

No one has to know the gown is borrowed, or that my invitation was technically a job order.

And they won’t, if I can just find a place to stash my boring black catering uniform.

The dingy staff bathroom doesn’t have a single nook or cranny I could use.

I have to find a place on my way through the kitchen back to the ballroom.

You’ve got this, Sach.

I channel my inner diva and square my shoulders with the certainty that I am perfectly entitled to be here tonight and do exactly as I please.

One last glimpse of myself in the mirror is all I need.

Girl, you are fire!

I feel a solid inch taller, and when you’re not even five foot, every inch makes a big difference. It could just be the insane stilettos I’m wearing.

Who’s to say?

All that matters is I feel unstoppable. I’m ready to have a fabulous night.

I unlock the door and walk down a dark hallway, pausing only briefly to stash my bag in the employee locker room opposite the kitchen.

Once that’s done, I square my shoulders again and stroll confidently into the kitchen.

Heads swivel in my direction until I feel an entire room full of eyes glued to me.

It’s understandable. I’d stare at the woman wearing this dress, too, if I could.

Hell, I did stare at my reflection when I first put on the mask.

I didn’t even recognize myself. The sophisticated woman staring back at me felt surreal.

I was so amazed that I took a ridiculous number of selfies and maybe even spun in a circle. Twice.

Thankfully, no one stops me on my trip through the kitchen.

And once I return to the ballroom, I see that the gathering has ballooned to a healthy throng of masked partygoers.

The upper echelon of New York City law enforcement, along with their guests—all circulating animatedly without any idea that an impostor lurks among them.

Nothing all that bad would happen if they figured me out, but breaking the rules is exhilarating, nonetheless.

And for once, I get to be a part of the celebration.

As I take a glass of champagne from a refreshments table, I craft a story for myself.

I’m a businesswoman—the owner of several prestigious art galleries.

I arrived not by subway but in the back of a luxurious sedan owned by a car service I frequently employ.

My dress is no longer a designer sample but a boutique purchase that is one of hundreds lining the closet in my extravagant Park Avenue apartment.

A titillating smile teases its way across my crimson-stained lips.