Chapter 7
Roxy
The scent of hot coffee and fresh beignets drifts through the entire floor, wrapping around me as I get ready to plan what my boss has dubbed the event of the year.
And by “dubbed,” I mean she actually said, “Roxy, this wedding is going to be like the Oscars and the Met Gala had a baby. It has to be perfect.”
Which is how I ended up in the conference room, surrounded by glossy catalogs of venues, gowns, floral arrangements, and desserts, waiting for the people who, with their “I do’s,” are basically buying me my annual bonus.
The base salary’s fine, but without the bonuses from these big-ticket events, I couldn’t afford my lifestyle.
If Ivette taught me anything worth remembering, it’s that image matters. Nobody hires this company for something “modest.” They want lavish. Breathtaking. Eternal bragging rights.
That’s why the beige velvet dress I’m wearing costs half a month’s rent. The black Amina Muaddi heels? Let’s just say I lived on banana oatmeal for a week to afford them. The diamond earrings, thank God, were a gift from my uncle.
This crowd sizes you up in the first five seconds. If you can’t match their level, you’re not invited into their world.
In this world, centerpieces alone run into the thousands, venues require booking three years in advance, and wedding gowns are sewn by hand, stitch by painstaking stitch, for over a hundred hours.
Heavy footsteps echo in the hall, pulling me toward the edge of the conference table.
Two tall men enter first, one looks around forty five, the other around my age, flanking a woman in a pink Chanel suit straight out of the 1994 collection. Her black hair is pulled into a tight bun at the base of her neck, and an exquisite pearl necklace rests like a crown against her skin.
The older man looks…familiar somehow, though I can’t place him. His hair is still mostly black but dusted with gray, his eyes a deep molasses brown, and his suit? The suit screams “I spend my summers on a private beach in Sardinia.”
“My name’s Roxy Tatcher, and I’ll be assisting you with the wedding plans,” I say, catching the minute tension that tightens both the older man and the woman at my introduction. Subtle, but there. They relax just as fast.
“Marco Agosti,” the older man says. “This is my son, Luca, and my sister, Gianna. The wedding is for my son.”
His words are delivered evenly, but his eyes, they’re searching my face for something. I’m used to being studied in these meetings, but there’s something about his gaze that makes my spine stiffen.
“All right,” I say, flipping open my notes. “Let’s start with some basics to help me understand the kind of event you want. How many guests?”
The groom-to-be, propped against the window, doesn’t even bother to look at me. Someone is not thrilled about this meeting.
“Three hundred,” Gianna answers, her gaze running over me the way her brother’s had, head to toe, slow and deliberate.
“Got it. Are you leaning toward an outdoor location, or would you prefer something in the city?”
For their numbers, a garden setting would be perfect, but I know people like them don’t stray far from their urban playgrounds.
“A morgue would be ideal,” the man by the window says flatly.
I turn toward him, and for half a second, I almost feel bad for the guy.
“Noted. If we move quickly, I can probably find a priest, and an exorcist, willing to officiate,” I shoot back with a smile.
That’s when he finally turns to look at me. He doesn’t smile, not exactly, but the corner of his mouth lifts just enough to count.
“Just make sure he brings plenty of incense,” he says. “There’ll be a lot of restless spirits around.”
I nearly laugh—nearly. But I rein it in. I’m a professional, even when joking with reluctant grooms. This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with someone getting married under duress.
“Luca,” Gianna says, her tone a warning. “We’d prefer an outdoor venue no more than twenty miles from Chicago.”
“Perfect. Any particular color scheme in mind?” I ask, jotting notes and mentally marking which venues I need to call immediately after this meeting if I have any hope of securing one on a week’s notice.
Yes, a week. Who decides to get married in seven days when the groom looks like he’d rather swan dive out the window than say ‘I do’? Not my problem. Especially when the client ended our initial call with those magic words: unlimited budget.
“Whatever you choose will be fine,” Gianna says simply.
Interesting. Usually the bride micromanages this part. I’ll have to make do with what info I can pry from them.
“What’s the bride like? What does she enjoy?” I prompt, pen ready.
“Picture a blonde Chucky doll with a thing for cockroaches,” Luca says.
This time, I can’t swallow my laughter fast enough, so it comes out as a cough. Who describes their future wife like that?
“Luca!” Marco’s voice cracks through the room like a whip. Luca’s only response is to tense even harder; I swear the window behind him groans in protest.
“My son hasn’t learned that some thoughts are better kept to himself,” Marco says without breaking eye contact with him.
“That’s fine,” I reply lightly. “Better now than at the altar.”
Gianna’s lips twitch with what, for her, must be an all-out belly laugh. I’m absurdly pleased with myself for earning it.
After a few more basic details about the bride— Beatrice, for the record—they get ready to leave. Luca goes first, pausing only to tell me to put “Black, like the bride’s soul” as the dress code on the invites.
Marco is the last to go. He pauses in the doorway, glances back at me, and there’s something in his eyes…regret? Guilt? I can’t nail it down.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Roxy,” he says.
“Likewise,” I reply, already turning back to my notes. There’s a wedding to plan.
When I’m flipping through the last page of ideas, my boss pokes her head in.
“How’d it go?”
“The groom would probably prefer marrying a jellyfish, but otherwise fine,” I say with a grin.
“They seem like good people?” she asks, eyebrow raised.
I give her a wary look. “Yeah. Why?”
She moves to the spot Luca stood, hands clasped behind her. “There’ve been rumors they’re connected to the Italian mafia. Nothing official. But if something feels off, tell me and we’ll walk away.”
“They seem fine,” I tell her, careful not to mention that my best friend is engaged to the head of the Russian mob in Chicago, or that the Polish mafia leader himself has delusions of wedding plans involving me.
This is just another job—only difference is this one comes with a bottomless bag of cash.
“I mean it, Roxy,” she says. “We need these big events, but I’d rather have you safe.”
I just smile and nod. Truth is, I haven’t been safe for a long time.
It’s been days since the whole nightmare with that damned dahlia, proof enough that danger can find me even at home. And every night since, there’s been a motorcycle parked right out front.
I know exactly whose it is. And too many times, I’ve almost invited him upstairs. But I know what’ll happen if I do.
Damien is my kryptonite.
And the last thing I need right now is another weakness. If the person who killed my mother is still watching me, Damien’s the last person I want in their crosshairs. Not that he’s making my life easy, since he sticks to me like a shadow, practically begging to be a target.
Would it really be too much to ask for a little peace? I thought after the whole Luna-and-Aiden mess, the universe would say, You know what, Roxy? You’ve earned some peace and quiet.
Apparently not.
If biting the Irish mob boss’s dick didn’t earn me cosmic mercy, I honestly don’t know what will.