Cognac Villain - A Mafia Romance

CORA

The draft in this jacket is unbearable. It's made even worse by the bedroom eyes the owner of the jacket keeps tossing my way.

Come to think of it, those bedroom eyes are exactly why the draft is so unbearable. No underwear, arousal, a draft-it's a bad combo.

As I see them, the problems are several-fold. One, I'm butt-naked in a borrowed suit jacket. This is not what we in the female empowerment business like to call "the command position."

Two, I don't know this man. He could be head of security, he could be a clown out of costume, he could be a spy on a secret mission from the Kremlin. Who knows? Not me.

Third, and most importantly, I am butt-naked in a borrowed suit jacket. I think that point bears repeating.

My brain keeps drifting to how much Francia's Vera Wang must've cost. Every time it does, I make myself take another sip of disgusting, expensive cognac and wonder how on earth I'm going to pay her back.

"More?"

The man's huge hand is already halfway around the glass when I realize what he's asking. His fingers brush mine and I jerk my arm back like I've been electrocuted. The only reason the glass doesn't crash to the floor is because the man has Superman-like reflexes and snatches it out of mid-air.

"No, that's okay." I shake my head, cheeks burning. "Thanks, though. For the drink. The first one."

And for sending my groper off with his tail between his legs. And for the jacket. And for not kicking me out the door in my birthday suit.

The debts between us are piling up. I should thank him for everything he's done, but I can't bring myself to do it. Because I could have gotten myself out of this mess.

I should have, anyway. Sitting back and letting a man swoop in to rescue me is so not my story anymore. No Prince Charmings. No Happily Ever Afters.

Admittedly, I do have one too many evil stepparents, but that's as far as the similarities go.

Prince Testosterone is tinkering around behind me at the bar as I step over the destroyed dress and further out onto the balcony. The evening air is warm and balmy. A babble of cross-talking voices rises straight up from the crowd below.

"Where is he? I heard he might be watching in from the security cameras. Do I look okay?"

"I haven't seen Ivan once since I got here. I doubt he's even here. Men like him never come to their own parties."

"Portia got her boobs done. As if that is why Ivan has never looked twice at her. Forget her horse teeth and beige personality; she thinks it was the boobs. Get fucking real."

The Ivan talk is really blowing my mind. It's like he could snap his fingers and give every female on the property an instant G-spot orgasm. I've been around plenty of pompous, overstuffed peacocks in my time, but none of them have ever drawn this kind of devotion.

Maybe I should stick around and find out who this guy is.

No sooner does the thought cross my mind than do I see a man separate from the crowd below. He steps out, then cranes his neck to look up at the string lights hanging overhead.

"Boris must be hoping he can liquor Ivan up enough to convince him to marry. Why else would there be endless trays of champagne without a bite to eat in sight?"

I duck back out of sight and hold my breath. I hope to God I hid in time. Saying my heart is in my throat isn't a metaphor. I can taste the blood. The iron tang of fear.

Because I'd recognize that voice anywhere.

And if my monster of a stepfather sees me here, there's no telling what he'll do.

"Either that," he drawls, "or he's hoping a respectable woman will get drunk enough to forget that Ivan is a fucking sadist."

My stepfather's voice fades away as he moves through the crowd, but I stay put. I can't move. I can barely breathe.

It's been years since I've been that close to him. Could he sense how near I was? Did his skin crawl with disgust like mine did?

I doubt that very much. Why would it?

Monsters never run from their prey.

7

CORA

"You look spooked."

The voice behind me upsets the delicate balance I'm striking in these heels. I fall forward, catch myself on the railing, and then jerk myself right back to make sure my stepfather doesn't catch sight of me. The breeze is cold in all the wrong places.

I sort myself into something resembling stability. "Huh?"

"That look on your face. Like you just saw a ghost."

"I'm fine. No ghosts. I'm just having second thoughts about that drink." I've already had a bit more than my usual night out allowance, but I'll do anything to spend a few more minutes in this room, safe from the boogeyman of my past.

I need time to come up with an escape plan.

"Alcohol is not going to improve your situation," he remarks as he turns to the bar to pour me a second drink anyway.

"What situation is that?"

He looks back over his shoulder, dark eyebrow arched. "Do you actually need me to explain it?"

I grit my teeth. "You wanna know something? You play the hero type-saving me from a drunk man downstairs and offering your jacket-but you're kind of an asshole."

"Only 'kind of'?

"Oh, I'm sorry. Would you rather be a full-blown asshole?"

He walks over with a smirk and a fresh drink. "If you're going to do something, you might as well commit."

I grimace, but I take the drink and throw half of it back. The alcohol burns going down. It still tastes terrible, but I'm not in this for the flavor profile. If I'm going to walk out of this room with my bits and bobs hanging out of a borrowed suit jacket, I need a little liquid courage.

"Now," he continues, "are you going to keep trading barbs or are you going to tell me why you looked so scared just now?"

I shake my head. "I'm not scared."

Not anymore, at least.

I have no desire at all to see my stepfather or relive any portion of my past, but I'm not scared of him. I escaped and he hasn't caught me yet. As far as I'm concerned, that means I've won.

"You saw something. Or someone. I want to know who it was."

"No one. It was nothing. I just, uh...tripped." I lift one leg to show off my heels. "It's what I get for wearing impractical footwear. I should always remember to wear shoes I can run in."

"You say that as if you're always getting ready to run."

I turn. He is so much closer than he was a second ago. The world fades away as he shifts into stark focus.

His lips are curved and gorgeous. I didn't notice it before, but black ink marks swirl out of the collar of his shirt, whirling around his thick neck. "You have tattoos."

"You're changing the subject."

"So did you. Earlier. It makes me think you're hiding something."

"I am," he admits freely. "But I'm not lying to you. Are you lying to me, Francia?"

The false name lands with an awkward clunk between us. "No."

He moves even closer. "Did you see your boyfriend down there in the crowd? Maybe a husband? You have a guilty look about you."

"You recognize that look, hm? Maybe that's why you know so much about everyone else's affairs-because you're the one causing them."

"I don't know a thing about you or yours." His gaze drips down my face like honey, slow and sweet. "Who are you?"

I bite my lip and turn back to the doorway. I take a slow step forward. Then another. My stepfather is gone, so I can let myself relax against the doorframe like I don't have anything to hide. "I'm no one's wife or girlfriend, I can promise you that. And unlike everyone else here, I have no desire to be. I'm okay on my own."

"I don't believe you."

I snap my attention to him. "Excuse me?"

"I don't believe you. You saw someone in the crowd. But if you don't want to tell me, so be it. I don't care who it was."

I should deny it, but he can see straight through me. "Why not?"

"Because there's not a single person at this party who can stop me from doing what I want."