Model for the Mob (Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance)

“That’s right,” he says evenly.

“What’d you reckon, Luca?”

I shrug. “Sounds fine.”

I just want to get this over with so we can draw up another contract for the docks, making sure no clerical errors happen in the future. If they do, maybe a firearm error will happen and Franco will end up face down in a fucking quarry.

Chapter Two

Lucy

I stand backstage wringing my hands, wondering how the heck I even got here.

One minute I’m waitressing at the rundown diner where I work and the next a man with a bad comb-over is threatening me with violence if I don’t participate in this fashion show.

My belly swirls with anxiety at the thought of walking down the runway in these ridiculous heels, in this ridiculous outfit – mini skirt, tank top, my face dolled up like a clown – but once I learned that the man with the comb-over was Franco Russo I knew I had to listen.

I’d heard the name Russo growing up, all throughout my childhood at the orphanage, and even more lately now that I live in a bad part of the city. It’s the only place I can afford to live.

Franco Russo is a mobster and his men have free reign over the poorer areas of the city. Saying no to him simply isn’t an option.

So here I am, ready to make a complete fool of myself.

I move my hands over my belly, swallowing a mouthful of nervousness.

I don’t want to be the girl who’s made fun of for the way she looks. I’m twenty. I should be beyond that.

I know all of them are going to laugh their asses off when I strut out there in this joke of a costume. And even thinking about strutting out there makes me want to let out wild insane laughter.

I’m not going to strut in these six-inch heels. I can barely walk.

Some of the girls – the ones who actually look like models – wear proud smiles and exchange jokes as we wait.

I stand off to the side, on my own, barely able to breathe enough to stay calm, let alone make jokes.

It would be one thing if I was getting paid for this. I need the money. I’m late on my rent and most of my bills, which is partly my own fault because I splurged and bought a sewing machine. But also my boss is a real ass-hat who likes to change my working hours last minute.

That’s the biggest irony about this.

I’ve wanted to work in fashion for as long as I can remember. But I’ve always envisioned designing outfits that would make women of my build feel flattered and beautiful, not laughingstocks.

A hush falls over the room when the door opens and the lady in charge steps in. She reminds me of a vulture, her eyes cold, her wrinkled hands glittering with bone-colored rings. She looks over us like we’re meat and she can’t bring herself to acknowledge us as human.

“Plus-size models first,” she calls over the room. “Come on. Get moving.”

My stomach tightens, even more, a big ball of self-hate and anxiety gripping me with ghostly hands. Ghostly, fine, but they feel extremely real as I teeter on my heels toward the exit.

One of the beautiful women giggles when I almost stumble and I want to scream at her, to slap her across the face, to make her hurt for making me feel so worthless.

The five of us walk down the hallway toward the curtain.

The lady in charge – I’ve forgotten her name I’m so freaking nervous – talks in clipped sentences as she walks ahead.

“Remember who this is for. Don’t embarrass me out there. We have our city’s finest in attendance, as well as the Russo and the Lioni families. They may laugh at you. They may make loud comments. They can do whatever they want and you will walk, heads held high, slowly, slowly… remember that. Don’t rush. Some of you will be nervous, but you can’t let such pathetic emotions rule you.”

She spins on us when we reach the curtain, glaring, like any second she’s going to bring a ring-decked hand up in a vicious slap.

“Am I clear?”

“Yes,” we all say in unison.

I try to detect nerves in the voices of the other women, but it’s difficult when my ears are ringing so loudly with my own fear.

I tell myself I’m strong.

I grew up in an orphanage and I live in one of the toughest neighborhoods in the city.

I have to be strong to get through all that, don’t I?

But it’s hard to convince myself when I can feel the tank top digging into my shoulders, the skirt riding up my ass, making me feel exposed and vulnerable.

It’s a caricature of a fashion show. They’re trotting us out first as the comedy routine. We’re not dressed even remotely fashionably.