Married to the mafia King

I accepted a ride in Sergio’s Audi so I could get to the modeling agency on time.

His thugs drove and sat in the front seat, which put me in the back with the slimy mafioso.

He kept making comments about my ‘rack’ and how he bet I was good in bed.

It made my skin crawl, but I endured it and didn’t say a thing.

No matter what, I had to buy my dad more time.

I kept checking my phone, but no word from my father.

After 20 minutes, we finally arrived at a building on the edge of old Florence.

The exterior was ancient, but the insides had been redone with modern decor including an elevator.

Sergio left his goons in the car and took me up to the 4th floor. There were a lot of offices up there, but one in particular had glass doors that let you see the lobby inside.

Everything in the lobby was white. Furniture, carpet, chairs white and shades of cream.

An attractive middle-aged woman was sitting at the front desk. Her dark blue suit jacket was the only spot of color in the room.

Behind her was a wall with Agenzia di Modelle Fiorentina in 12-inch silver letters. Over to the right was a white door.

Sergio took me inside and told the receptionist, “Tell ’em I got a girl for the 8 o’clock thing.”

“I’m not a girl, I’m a woman,” I snapped.

“Yes you are,” Sergio said with one of his lecherous smiles.

I just rolled my eyes in disgust.

The receptionist made a call (on her white phone, naturally).

Thirty seconds later, an elegant woman in a fashionable business suit opened the door.

“This is her?” she asked as she looked me over.

She was eyeballing me like a butcher would a cut of meat.

“Yup,” Sergio replied. “We worked somethin’ out, so don’t worry about payin’ her. And make sure the boss knows I’m the one who got her for him.”

“Of course,” the woman said curtly, then motioned to me. “Come with me.”

As I walked past him, Sergio leered at me one last time. “Have a good time tonight. And tell your dad he better call me.”

I didn’t bother answering him as I followed the woman through the door.

The area behind the lobby was a maze of hallways. The woman stopped at a door, knocked, and stuck her head in.

“I’ve got a third girl for tonight. One of your guys brought her in just now. She’s right behind me.”

The She’s right behind me part seemed a little suspicious…

Sort of like, Don’t say anything you don’t want her to hear.

A male voice answered. It was wheezy and phlegmy and muffled by the door. I couldn’t see him, but I imagined a 400-pound man with triple chins.

“Good, good. Get her ready.”

As the woman closed the door, I glimpsed a man inside the office. He was sitting in a visitor’s chair by a desk. Above him was a stylized Art Deco poster hanging on the wall.

He hadn’t been the one speaking. Because he was right there in front of the door, his voice would have been clear.

Not only that, but the wheezy, phlegmy voice didn’t match him at all.

He was young, maybe 25 thin and in good shape.

He wore an expensive suit that had been beautifully tailored. A gorgeous silk tie and pocket square completed the ensemble.

He was clean-shaven with short hair. He was definitely handsome

But his expression was cold and arrogant.

I don’t think he saw me as the door closed, and I was glad he didn’t…

Because he had the cruelest eyes I had ever seen.

I wasn’t sure how I would have reacted if they had stared right at me.

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.”Original content from NôvelDrama.Org.

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?”

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.