Trapped with the Mob Boss - A Mafia Romance

Bella

Every paparazzi picture ever taken and printed of me shows me standing in front of luxury shoe stores or high-end clothing brands. Those are the pictures that sell. The ones the public likes to see. Regular people enjoy feeling like the upper class is far beyond their reach. As though we're another species entirely. Alien. Remote. Untouchable. No one wants to see a senator's daughter walking past Clip 'N Trim Haircutters on her way to a comic book store.

But that's what I'm doing, and there's no one around to document it. And surprisingly, no security, either. They often give me a wide berth when I'm in less occupied areas of town, but not being able to see them lurking behind me like muscular shadows is unusual, although I'm not complaining. I like feeling like a normal person. A person who hasn't been on the cover of magazines and newspapers since she was a small girl, standing next to her smiling, suited father, an American flag pinned to his lapel. Without the hulks with headsets lingering around me, I could be anyone. Just a normal twentyfive-year-old girl.

Too bad that's never going to happen.

But no matter how bad I wish I was normal, old habits die hard. I look over my shoulder for security and see a man walking behind me. He's still a long way off, but even from a distance, I can tell he's handsome. Devastatingly so. Toned body visible even under a hoodie, wide shoulders, wellgroomed stubble covering a strong jaw. I'm considering slowing my pace to let him catch up, seeing how long I can keep up this "regular girl" routine before my security steps in to intervene, when my phone goes off.

My eyes bulge as intense rap music with lyrics about pounding women and licking private parts blares out of my purse. I scramble to grab my phone.

"Ivy." I sound like a frustrated mother scolding her child.

She only laughs. "You like my new ringer? I set it last night. Family-friendly, don't you think?"

"You are so lucky I'm alone," I say, managing to hold in my laugh. I don't want to encourage this behavior. The last time she called I was with my grandma, and she didn't find my heavy metal ringtone to be "suitable for a woman of my ilk."

"Oh good, you're alone. Come over."

"Over where?"

"The club," she says, as though it's obvious. Ivy is always at the club. She spent her early and late teen years despising every second she had to spend there with the wealthy and privileged, but as a young single woman, I wouldn't be surprised to hear she sleeps on the golf course. "Lots of eligible men here today. There's a charity golf tournament going on. Do you realize how short golf shorts are?

Muscular man thighs, everywhere you look. Yum."

"'Man thighs,'" I grimace, shaking my head. "No, thank you. I prefer my men covered. Preferably in jeans and leather."

She sighs. "When are you going to let go of that particular preference, Bella? Nice boys don't wear leather."

"Who says I want a nice boy?" I ask. "Also, you sound like my grandma."

"Then be a good girl and listen to your granny. Come to the club. The men are all out on the course, and I need someone to drink with me until they get back. Day drinking alone makes me look sad."

"As much as I wish I could help you get day drunk, I'm busy right now," I say, stepping to the edge of the sidewalk and leaning against a concrete planter box. As a well-groomed female in a dress and heels, I'll get enough weird looks inside the comic book store without also being on my phone and disrupting everyone inside.

"You said you were alone," she argues.

"And busy," I add. "I have plans, but I'll let you know if my schedule clears up."

I look back down the sidewalk and don't see the handsome man from before. Surely he didn't go into the Clip 'N Trim. From what little I saw of him, there was no way he was only paying ten dollars for his haircuts. Either way, he's gone, and I'm more than a little disappointed.

Being a senator's daughter means I have a very full social calendar and very few dating prospects. Every man who comes into my life has to be thoroughly vetted by my father, my grandmother, and our security. Their pasts are combed over to ensure they have no seedy connections, nothing lurking in their closets that could become a problem for my father's reelection. In high school, I couldn't go to prom with Isaac Daines because he helped use grass killer to burn a giant penis in the school's front lawn. It was visible from every single classroom in the science wing, and even though I laughed until I cried, the school officials didn't like it much. Neither did my father.

I have a bit more freedom as an adult, especially if I keep the relationships private-ordering dinner to eat at my apartment, late night hookups, drinks in shadowy corners, and leaving in separate cars. But as soon as things are out in the open, the press picks up the story and the fledgling relationship is subjected to intense speculation from both the public and my family, which is usually enough to kill whatever spark may have been there.

My father has always done his best to protect me and love me, so I try not to blame him. But it's hard when Ivy can serial-date every member of the club beneath the age of forty with no

repercussions, while I can't even get coffee with a cute guy from my coding class without a tabloid running a background check on him and speculating that my food baby from the burrito I had for lunch might in fact be a baby bump.

"You know, I would drop everything to join you at the club," she says.

"I know you would, but that's because you'd probably already be at the club anyway," I retort.

She grumbles but doesn't respond, which means she knows I'm right. "I'll call you in a bit, okay? Try to control yourself. You'll be really bored if you get yourself banned from the club for groping the golfers."

"Very true," she says, as though she's actually considering it. "Alright, well, call me back soon before I do something irresponsible."

I sigh as she hangs up. Then I put my phone on silent, making a very important mental note to change Ivy's ringtone later, and smooth my hands down the front of my dress. It's knee-length, like Father politely requests, but the neckline is cut low and revealing. I have to get a little wild, in whatever ways I can get away with it.