Mafia Kings: Adriano: Dark Mafia Romance Series #2

The elegant woman was not one for small talk. She said nothing as she led me down the maze of hallways.

We finally entered a small studio with high ceilings. It was set up with photographic backdrops and professional lights for photo shoots.

Off to the side were a dozen metal racks filled with hundreds of outfits.

Along the wall were three makeup stations: vanity mirrors with canvas director’s chairs in front of them.

Only one person was in the studio – a guy in a hot pink dress shirt and skinny black jeans. His hair was perfectly coifed, and I was pretty sure he was wearing eyeliner. He sat in one of the canvas chairs and scrolled through his phone with a bored look on his face.

“Luca,” the fashionable woman snapped. “Get her ready for tonight.”

The guy looked up and his face brightened.

“Oooh,” he said in a feminine voice, “not bad. What’s the vibe – slutty or high society?”

“Top-dollar escort,” the woman said as she headed for the exit.

“Hold on!” I yelled.

The woman turned back to me with a furious expression. “What?”Text © 2024 NôvelDrama.Org.

The gay guy – I was 99.9% sure he was gay – got an amused look on his face. SOMEBODY’S about to get in trouble!

“I’m not having sex with anybody,” I snapped. “I already told Sergio that.”

“Then don’t – but you still have to look the part.” She glared at Luca. “Have her ready by 7.”

And with that, she turned and walked out.

“Damn, girl, you need to be careful who you piss off,” Luca said with a chuckle. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. “That bitch’ll bite your head off.”

“Well, it’s still on my shoulders,” I muttered. “What do we do?”

“Let’s start with the clothes first,” he said as he led me over to the racks of clothing. “What dress size are you?”

“A 44,” I said, which was the equivalent of a size 8 in America.

Luca raised one eyebrow as he looked me up and down. “…really…?”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Whateverrrrrr,” he said as he turned to the racks. “We’ll see. The clothes tell no lies.”

He pulled out a strappy black leather dress that would have barely covered my upper thighs. “What about this?”

“It looks like something a dominatrix would wear.”

“I know, right? It’s hot. We’ll get you some thigh-high boots, some – ”

“NO.”

He huffed as he put it back on the rack. “Fine. What about this?”

It was a patterned floral print in silk.

“I’m not a grandma,” I said indignantly.

Luca snorted with glee as he put the dress back on the rack. “That was a test. You passed.”

He went down the line, pulling out an assortment of dresses, none of which I liked.

“You’ve gotta choose something, girl,” he admonished me – then said in a playfully threatening voice, “Don’t make me call Mom.”

I assumed he meant the bitchy woman who’d brought me in here.

I pulled something out myself. “What about this?”

“Martina said high-class escort, not Met Gala,” he snarked.

“…this?” I asked as I picked out another one.

“Too much ‘I’m going to meet the parents’ and not enough ‘I bang on the first date.’”

“What about this?”

“OH my god no.”

“…how about this one?”

“That is so last season.”

“Yeah, but – ”

“NO. Next.”

I picked out a series of dresses, all of which he vetoed.

I sighed.

“It would seem we’re at an impasse,” he said theatrically.

I looked past the clothing racks at the wall behind it –

And saw shelves filled with mannequin heads wearing wigs.

One in particular caught my eye: a short bob with an asymmetrical cut…

…and it was metallic blue.

So punk rock.

I walked over to it, immediately enthralled.

“OH no,” Luca said in a panicked voice. “No way.”

“But it’s great!”

“Yes it is, but Martina’ll turn me into a castrato if I let you wear that.”

“Why?”

“Cuz the guys who’re gonna be at this thing aren’t into that sort of stuff.”

I looked over at him. “What guys?”

He rolled his eyes and flapped one hand dismissively. “You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

He looked annoyed. “Are you gonna make me say it?”

“Yes.”

Luca sighed heavily, like he was the most put-upon person ever to walk the earth. “Mafia guys – some assholes out of the boondocks in Tuscany. Probably a bunch of fat old men with mustaches. ‘Vito, Salvatore’ – that sort of shit.”

“And you don’t think they’ll want to sleep with me if I wear this wig?”

“I know they won’t want to sleep with you if you wear that wig.”

“Then I’m definitely wearing it,” I said in a determined voice.

“Oh my god,” he whispered as he put his hand to his forehead like he had a migraine.

“I’ll wear the dominatrix dress if you let me have the wig,” I offered.

He looked up in surprise.

“…and the thigh-highs?” he asked hopefully.

“…and the thigh-highs,” I relented.

He squealed like a 12-year-old girl who’d just gotten Taylor Swift tickets.

“Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod – girl, I am going to make you look AMAZING.”

“Not too amazing,” I warned him as I pulled the blue wig off the mannequin’s head.