Cognac Villain - A Mafia Romance

I cross the distance, find the back of Stefanos's collar, and rip him to the ground. He shrieks and hits hard enough to shake the nearby sculptures on their pedestals. A champagne flute crashes to the floor and shatters in a million directions. One of the jagged pieces cuts Stefanos's ear. His blood starts to pool out onto the white marble. I plant a knee on Stefanos's chest and bend down close enough for him to hear every word I breathe in his face. "I think you are the one who ought to 'listen here,' my friend. The lady told you no. She asked you to keep your hands to yourself, but you did not. So now, I'm putting my hands on you, and I won't stop when you ask me to. I won't stop when you beg me to. I won't even stop when you scream and plead and cry for me to please God just have some fucking mercy." Stefanos's eyes are wide and still now. His lower lip quivers. The cold fear sweat beading in his mustache disgusts me. "P-p-plea-" "Shh." I press a finger to my mouth. "I just told you that begging won't help." Then, sighing, I release my weight from off his chest and stand again. I pull my tuxedo cuffs into place as I look down on him from above. "But I don't feel like getting your blood on my suit tonight. So for now, I'll let you go. Get the fuck out of my sight." He doesn't have to be told twice. He scrambles away on his hands and knees, leaking blood, until he can gather himself back upright. Then he goes bumbling away, down the corner and out of sight. When he's gone, I turn to the girl. 3 CORA I'm still standing where that asshole left me backed into the corner. My hair is mussed and sweaty and my jaw is aching from biting down so hard. I'd like to get out of here, but I'm stuck for two main reasons. One is that the man who just rescued me from Mr. Handsy Douche Bag is currently smoldering down in my direction. He looks like if testosterone had a face. Pure, rippling masculinity. Eyes like preserved honey. Hands that, even now, are flexing and unflexing like they're capable of doing so much more. The second reason is that, if I move out of this corner, Prince Testosterone and all the rubber-necking onlookers will get an eyeful of my bare butt. That's because, when the douche bag tried to paw at me, he ripped my dress all the way up the back seams. I can feel the cold breeze of the air conditioning blowing where I really wish it wouldn't. Not good. So that's my predicament in a nutshell: hottest guy I've ever seen plus one hell of a wardrobe malfunction. I'm a waitress, not a mathematician, but even I know that that doesn't add up to anything great. "Relax," he rumbles. "You don't have to worry. I handled it." "Yep. Relax. Working on it." It's difficult to talk, given how hard I'm trying not to move for fear of ripping the dress further. I have a delirious mental image of just staying planted right here for the rest of the night. They can use my arms like a coat rack. The clean-up crew will have to get a crowbar to pry me out of the corner in the morning. "I'd advise you to start by inhaling," he suggests. "In through the nose, out through the mouth. That sort of thing." There's an undercurrent of dark laughter in his voice. I wrinkle my nose. "Which part of this is funny to you?" He doesn't seem bothered in the least by my sharp voice. "The part where you look like you're about to have an aneurysm if you don't take a breath in the near future." He's right-I really am clenching dangerously hard. For medical reasons, if nothing else, I sigh and take a big sip of air. As I do, I feel another stitch in the seam give way. Things are going well. "You know, you look like a busy, important man," I say, doing my best to keep my ever-growing desperation out of my voice. "I'm sure other busy, important men and women would very much like your attention somewhere else in the party, right?" He shrugs. "Maybe. Hard to say." "But easy to find out! You could go...over there, maybe!" I jut my chin in the direction of the back lawn. "Or there. Or there. Anywhere, really. Lots of people are no doubt extremely eager to ask you about, uh, world politics or the economy or who you think is gonna win Naked & Afraid this season." Unfortunately, Prince Testosterone doesn't take any of my suggestions. "Then they can wait." He inches closer, which I really, really wish he wouldn't do. "What's your name?" "Who, me?" "No, the other girl cowering in the corner." I force a laugh. "Oh, I'm nobody. Not busy or important in the least, and I don't even watch Naked & Afraid!" It feels like the walls are closing in. I'm making silent oaths in my head and hoping that some deities above are listening and will take mercy on me. I'll wear only pants for the rest of my life if you get me out of this mess. Just please, for God's sake, help me! If anyone up above hears, they show no sign of it. He edges closer still. I can smell his cologne now. Cedarwood and sage. It's making my head spin. Over his shoulders, most of the other attendees have turned back to their conversations, though I still feel a few stray eyes drifting in our direction here and there. It's hard to look anywhere but at him, though. He's just got this confidence, this magnetism, that brings me back to his gaze again and again. For his part, he doesn't seem to have any problem blocking out the whole world to focus on just me. "You're a strange one." "You don't even know the half of it," I promise him. "Seriously. I'd run if I were you." I'd run if I were me, too, I add silently. He still doesn't smile or show any signs of a departure in the near-future. "I'll ask you one more time: what's your name?" I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel as far as lies and distractions go. Between that and the tickle of cold air on my bare skin and the tick-tick-tick sound-slash-sensation of more stitches giving way and my ever-growing terror that somehow, some way, this terrifying man knows who I am-who I really am-I'm about this close to just telling him the truth. Or maybe I'm just sick of lying. Of hiding. Of running. It's been years of it now and it's starting to get old.