Emerald Malice - A Mafia Romance

"Can I see your invitation?" I take a quick, panicked survey of the rest of the wedding guests. None of them seem to be holding anything apart from bespoke clutches and glasses of champagne. They look perfectly at ease. I, on the other hand, am sweating like a whore in church-and it's very, very obvious to my new friend here that I do not have an invitation. Instead of going through the indignity of being caught out as a gatecrasher, I go for what seems to be the most graceful of my limited options. I run. Admittedly, not one of my finer moments. This dress deserved a better night out. Hell, I deserve a better night out. A better best friend, too, now that I'm compiling a list. For the moment, I'd settle for a better sprint time than the burly security guard on my tail. Thankfully, I've got an advantage. The security team following me at a brisk pace across the ballroom seem unwilling to break into a full run so as not to ruffle the invited guests. It gives me enough time to slice through the hall and make it to an elevator. God must finally be done playing mean tricks on me, because for the first time tonight, I get lucky-one set of doors opens just as I arrive. I plow into the elevators and start smashing the button that will take me down to the ground floor and to freedom. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, you bastard..." The doors slowly groan closed. Through the gap, I see the security golems rumbling towards me. "Close faster, goddammit!" I cry out. "You have one job!" The guards come closer. The doors keep closing. The guards come closer. The doors are almost closed... I'm on the verge of letting out my pent-up exhale-there's only an inch left before I'm scot-free-when, suddenly, a huge hand shoots through the gap. I can only gape in horror as the doors reverse course and the owner of the hand steps in. The good news is that he's not security. The bad news is that I'm pretty sure he's much, much worse. "At ease, gentlemen," he says to the onrushing horde of guards, who promptly freeze at attention like toy soldiers. "She's with me." Then the doors glide closed. He's tall, dark, brooding-a dreamboat plagiarized from every single fantasy I've ever had. He's wearing a tuxedo, so he's probably a legit wedding guest, but the scowl on his face says he's not enjoying himself any more than I am. "Going down?" His voice matches his appearance perfectly. Raspy and low like distant thunder. "Trying to." "It might help if you pressed the right button." He reaches over and smoothly plucks my wrist to redirect my hand to the adjacent switch. His fingers are surprisingly gentle on my bare skin, though they burn like he's on fire. "Oh." My cheeks go red like they're on fire. "Yeah. Thanks." The doors seal smoothly like they were just waiting for this guy to grant them permission. "You're sweating." "You're just full of useful observations, aren't you?" I mumble. I immediately regret it-he's not the reason I'm in this mess to begin with, so he doesn't deserve my misplaced anger and anxiety. But if he's offended, he shows no sign of it. "Here." I blink at his outstretched hand. He's offering me a pristine white handkerchief. "Thanks," I mumble again, face still flaming. I take it and dab the sweat from my forehead. "Friend of the bride?" he asks as I give it back to him. "Uh, sure? Something like that." Deflect. For the love of all that is holy, change the subject now! "What, er... what about you?" The answer comes immediately. "Andrey Kuznetsov. Brother of the groom." Shiiiiit. I'm saved from figuring out what the hell to say to that by another, much worse, problem. Because it seems God isn't anywhere close to being done toying with me. The elevator grinds to a halt. I gasp, grabbing the rail of the elevator as it lurches to an abrupt, jarring stop. The shock makes me forget I'm not supposed to be making eye contact. I look up and his eyes snap onto mine. God help us all. Those eyes are too ethereal to be human. The irises are a light silver, rimmed with charcoal gray. Or maybe they're blue? There's sort of a bluish, predawn hue, like... But I can't quite decide what to call it before my attention is stolen by the rest of his face. The straight, proud nose. The sharp, hollow cheekbones. The diamond-carved jaw, sporting just the faintest brush of five o'clock shadow. Each feature is a standalone actor in its own right-but the ensemble... Muah. Chef's kiss. Someone stole this man directly from my spank bank... And then trapped me in the elevator with him. "Oh my God." I fall back on my initial strategy of attacking the foyer button like a manic woodpecker. "Oh my God, what's happening? What's⁠-" I freeze when his hand comes down on mine for the second time. "Once again, you're missing the target." He redirects me to the emergency bell in the bottom corner. I push it and it turns red. Then... Nothing. "What now?" "They'll get to it." He couldn't sound less concerned. Meanwhile, I'm wondering what kind of fee the dress rental place is gonna charge for excessive sweat stains. But even that worry fades away, because I'm starting to get light-headed, too. And this time, it has nothing to do with him. "When?" I croak. "When will they get to it?" "Are you alright?" No! I want to scream. No, I'm not alright at all. My best friend is a lunatic and I should absolutely not be in this place and you are way too good-looking to be real and my throat feels like it's closing up on me and are the lights getting dimmer or is it just me and is it getting hotter and hotter in here or is that just me...? I stumble back and my ass hits the wall and I scream before I can choke it back. "I-I-I... don't do well in confined spaces," I manage to stammer. "You're claustrophobic?" "I do believe that is the technical term, yes." I feel giddy and insane as I fan myself with one hand. "My Lord, it's hot in here. Are you hot?" I can't tell if he's amused or completely disgusted by me. "You need to stay calm. Breathe." "The whole thing about being claustrophobic is that you can't breathe when you want to." The emergency bell button suddenly flashes. There's some static and then a voice comes through, high and reedy. "Apologies for the inconvenience, folks. We're experiencing some technical difficulties. The elevators will be up and running in the next ten to fifteen minutes." Great. I'm trapped in a steel box hovering several stories above ground with the brother of the groom whose wedding I was forced into crashing. Somewhere overhead, God is laughing his ass off.