Chapter 4 A SHAMELESS NEGOTIATION.
My legs officially decided they were done supporting my body weight. I collapsed. The marble floor was so freezing that the shock of the impact gave me a split second of clarity. I sat there, cross-legged, right in the center of the mafia don's sacred, pristine apartment.
Gino and Tito jumped backward, acting like I had just detonated.
The mafia boss took two steps back. His hands twitched at his sides, fighting a war between the instinct to pull me up and the sheer terror of touching my dirty jeans.
And then, the worst thing happened. I started to laugh.
A hysterical, broken, humorless cackle clawed its way out of my throat. I hugged my stomach, gasping for air. The laughter crashed into hot tears stinging my eyes.
"A year!" I shrieked between cackles, wiping my face with the sleeve of my ragged t-shirt, smearing the chocolate even worse. "The guy wants to hire me for a year! I'm not even g-gonna live to see fucking Christmas!"
The man in the perfect suit crossed his arms. His face froze over again, locking into an expression of absolute calculation. There wasn't a single ounce of pity in his eyes. He only saw a logistical roadblock that needed solving.
"Save the theatrics for the stage," he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. "It's a cheap negotiation tactic. Do you honestly believe faking a terminal illness will get me to bump the offer to two million? You're a good liar, I'll admit; you almost sound desperate."
I stopped laughing instantly. I glared up at him from the floor, feeling the rage bubbling in my chest.
This dirt-phobic idiot actually thought I was playing a game. He thought this was a strategy. He had absolutely no idea that an hour ago I was a normal citizen who drank green juice and paid her taxes on time, and that now I was a biological ticking time bomb.
I planted my hands on the marble and slowly hauled myself up. I purposely didn't dust off my pants. I took a step toward him. He instinctively took a step back, his eyes locked onto my filthy sneakers.
"Look closely at my raccoon face, Mr. Mobster," I told him, tilting my chin up, the pure rage finally incinerating my stutter. "I just walked out of Dr. Vargas's office. He gave me a month. Thirty days. So your million dollars at the end of the year is only good for wiping my ass in hell."
I name-dropped the doctor without thinking. It was either a terrible mistake or the greatest move of my life. The mafia boss clenched his jaw. He recognized the name. His posture turned even stiffer, if that was even physically possible.
"Vargas?" he repeated, almost a whisper. He snapped his gaze to Gino. The giant nodded, confirming they had snatched me from an alley right near that sadist’s clinic. "I see. A candidate with an expiration date."
"Exactly. So, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go home and watch trash TV until my lungs stop working."
I spun around to march toward the elevator, half expecting Tito to shoot me in the back. But the voice of command stopped me dead in my tracks.
"Wait."
I looked over my shoulder. He was massaging his temples with two fingers, meticulously careful not to mess up a single millimeter of his hair.
"My father's event lasts three weeks," he calculated out loud, talking more to himself than to me. "If Vargas's prognosis is accurate, you will survive long enough to play your part in the wedding charade and the initial cohabitation. When you... pass away, I will be a tragic widower. In the eyes of the syndicate, I will be untouchable. My father will pity me too much to demand another marriage anytime soon."
My jaw dropped, my offense reaching stratospheric levels.
"Are you planning to use my tragic, premature death as political leverage for your disgusting criminal empire?" I yelled at him.
"It is operational efficiency," he replied, tilting his head. "You have no future. I need a temporary wife who will drop off the map without leaving a legal paper trail or demanding alimony. It's a perfect symbiosis."
I stared at him, dumbfounded. He was a calculating monster. He was the most despicable, utilitarian creature on the planet. And, fuck, he was absolutely right.
I was dead. I was going to die in a three-hundred-square-foot apartment, with water damage on the ceiling and mounting student debt. Or, I could spend my last month on earth in this glass palace, rolling in luxury, playing house with a mobster, and never having to worry about doing my own laundry again.
The YOLO philosophy kicked down the door to my brain and seized total control.
"Fine," I said, pivoting to face him completely. "I embrace the madness. I'll be your premature widow. But the rules change right here, right now. I don't care about your future money. I want benefits today."
The mob boss raised one perfect eyebrow.
"I'm listening."
"Point number one." I held up a sticky finger. "I want to eat garbage. Zero green juices, zero boring Mediterranean diets. I demand french fries, triple cheeseburgers, donuts, and gallons of soda at my disposal twenty-four-seven."
"Saturated fat ruins upholstery and clogs arteries," he objected, grinding his teeth.
"I'm dying in thirty days, my arteries are the maggots' problem!" I fired back. "Point number two. No weird decontamination chambers. I’ll shower every day—I'm not a savage—but I am not scrubbing myself down with industrial alcohol just because street germs give you a panic attack. And last but definitely not least, I want to lose my virginity to a hottie. I wouldn't complain if it was you." I gave him a wink and a shameless, brazen smile.
The vein in Lorenzo's neck throbbed dangerously. He shot a look at Gino and Tito, who were watching the scene like it was a high-stakes ping-pong match.
"That is unacceptable," the boss declared.
"Then tell Don Carmine he doesn't have a wife." I smiled with all my teeth, flashing the chocolate residue. "I can walk out that door right now. You guys are the ones running out of time. I don't have any time left to waste."
It was a clash of wills. The room plunged into a silence so heavy I could hear the hum of the AC unit. His stormy eyes scanned me, hunting for a weakness, but when you aren't afraid of dying, you become the most dangerous person in the room.
He knew it. He closed his eyes for a second, exhaled a controlled breath through his nose, and opened them again.
"Agreed," he conceded, in a tone that made it perfectly clear how much he despised losing control. "You will have your junk food. You will have your month of excessive luxury. We will feign affection in front of my father and my enemies, and you will not disrupt my peace of mind beyond the perimeter of this apartment. As for your virginity, we can hire a model or something... Understood?"
I nodded, feeling a shot of irrational, absurd adrenaline. I was going to live my last days on the edge.
"Deal, Mr...." I trailed off, suddenly realizing I didn't even know his name.
"Lorenzo," he said.
I held out my right hand. My fingers were still coated in sugar glaze and a little bit of grime from the floor of Gino's van. Lorenzo looked down at my offered hand. His nostrils flared.
He reached into his slacks and pulled out a small, cylindrical silver bottle, excessively sleek in design. He pressed the button on top.
Spritz. Spritz.
Two bursts of hand sanitizer, reeking heavily of alcohol and eucalyptus, landed right in the center of my dirty palm.
"Rub them together," he ordered, pocketing the bottle.
Stunned, I rubbed my hands together until the liquid evaporated. Only then did Lorenzo extend his own hand and shake mine. His grip was firm, cold, and shockingly soft for a leader of the underworld.
The friction of his skin against mine sent an electric spark shooting up my arm, a brutal contrast to the hospital smell surrounding us.
"Welcome to the family, Valeria," he said, dropping my hand instantly and inspecting his own palm for residue. "I suggest you get in the shower. You have exactly forty-eight hours to stop looking like a feral raccoon and learn how to fake love before you meet your father-in-law."
