Page 5 of The Mafia Bachelor

“You live in my territory.”

I give a jerky little nod. “Yes.”

“Hmm.” It’s a low, thoughtful sound, as he continues reading.

Seconds tick past.

I don’t know what to do with myself. My hands feel weird. What should I do with my arms? I shift, thinking about picking up my bag. Ready to run?

The heat reduces to a manageable burn on my face, but my skin itches. I remember what I wrote on the CV. My grades from school exams. Everything on it seems so pathetic when a man like this is reading it.

I put my first-aid certificate and swimming badges on, because I didn’t have enough to fill two pages. Swimming badges.

I guess at least he’ll know I won’t drown if he throws me in the Thames River.

“It’s not much, but I’m a hard worker,” I say into the silence.

“A degree is more than I have.” He lowers the paper and levels me a look. I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult. His green eyes are the infinite dark limits of a forest that disappears at the horizon.

“You don’t need a law degree.” I’m unsure whether to be pleased or fear for my life. “You’re a kingpin.”

He nods. There’s a long pause where he’s obviously assessing me. “I’ll offer you a job, Avery.”

My whole body jolts.

“Yes!” There’s no hesitation, just gratitude spilling through me so hard I could cry. A job. Finally. “Thank you so much! That would be amazing!”

The corners of his mouth tug upwards. “You haven’t heard what it is yet.”

“It doesn’t matter. I need a job. I can’t return home as a failure for another day. So long as I can put it on my CV, I’ll take it. Honestly, thank you,” I gush.

“Good.” His smile spreads into an expression that’s downright panty wetting. In both senses of the word.

Terrifying, yes. Sexy? Double yes.

“You’ll be my insider in a little ‘competition’ my mother has arranged.”

“Okay,” I reply, confused, but this seems possible?

“I need you to be a contestant, and I need you to win.”

I blink. “Win?” My stomach sinks. “I don’t know if I can do that. What if I⁠—”

“You will.” He says it like it’s fact.

“What’s it for? I mean, if it’s terrible dancing, or being awkward, or saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, I’ve got that licked. But otherwise⁠—”

“To be my wife.”

My ghost drifts up to the ceiling. I’m dead. This is the end, because I think this gorgeous man just said his mother is running a competition to marry him.

There’s no way this is real.

“But, why?” I gesture at him stupidly, as though I could make him see what I see. The amazing good looks, the obvious wealth, the influence, the reputation as a man who gets what he wants, regardless of morals or legalities.

A devil.

Someone who doesn’t need to have his mother find him a woman. He could crook his finger to anyone. In the street, probably. Just “hey, you, come over here” and they’d comply because not only is he dangerous and powerful, he’s stunningly handsome.