Chapter Four: How to crash a party

Number 1: Kidnap the Mafia's Wife.

Number 2: Great, the bitch is gone. Stage an accidentally-on-purpose meet up to get his attention.

Number 3: Have his eyes on me the whole night.

Number 4: Let him take me home.

Number 5: Experiment: take one; put a gun to the bastard's head.

If someone would tell me that one day, I would be the key instrument on a risky plan to go after the wife of the most dangerous man in the continent, I'd have punched them in the throat for blasphemy.

There are many other ways I could have chosen to die. A wide variety. And yet, I choose this means. Crawling down a dirty vent just to sneak into an exclusive underground party involving the most affluent figures in the country, pretending to be one of the strippers, and find my way into a mafia's heart through seduction — while my sister beat the shit out of his wife and stuffed her down a soakaway hole.

Lord, the things I'd do to become rich.

“Indigo, I hear something!” Sarissa says as she halts and I do the same, stilling my movements and crouching quietly behind Sarissa as we both huddled in the tight space of the vent.

I could hear it too — the music booming from somewhere, anywhere that wasn't this shithole crappy space we were almost dying in right now. I could imagine the kind of party we were walking into, a place that looked like an upgrade of paradise, filled with people who looked, smelled and even reeked of Old Money.

“I think we're close,” Sarissa says and she motions for me to follow her as she inches closer and I follow, the sounds of music, laughter and glass champagnes growing louder beneath us. Silver light slowly fills the vent and Sarissa's eyes lock onto mine. She smiles, and with a gentle push, the vent cover swings open into a dimly lit storage room. Sarissa goes first. I follow, dropping down into the room, our movements quiet on the cold floor.

The room is vast, but cramped, with shelves stacked high with crates and boxes. Sarissa leads the way, navigating through the narrow aisles with ease and I follow her, making sure to not bump into anything.

“Do you think there's surveillance?” I ask.

She doesn't answer, but stops in front of a mirror hanging on the wall to run a hand through her messy dirty blonde hair. For someone who was sneaking into a party, she looked dead. Sarissa didn't even think it was necessary to wear a cute dress or apply some make-up; she just brought herself the way she appeared to me that night: messy hair, pale skin, dry lips, and dirty old cloak that hovered around her head like a cloud of misery. What shocked me however was how no matter how drab she presented herself, she still managed to look so damn hot.

I join her in the mirror, checking my makeup and adjusting my corset. Unlike Sarissa, I needed effort to look this good. That's why I made sure my black hair was silky enough, my eyes smokey enough to pop the green-hazel in them and my lips red enough to make my lips look a little plumpier. I adjust the rest of my red dress and make sure the silk fabric is hugging all my body contours. One thing I had in common with Sarissa is a stunning hour-glass that I needed to take advantage of tonight.

Sarissa gives me a once-over, her eyes lingering on my fancy dress with a smile.

“You look stunning,” she says, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Good because we can't have Alessandro Ferrara getting his eyes off you for even a second tonight.”

I scoff. “I hope that's as easy as being said.”

“It should be, but before we leave, we need to run through this, Indigo. Your name is?” Sarissa looks at me to respond.

“Anabel Waverley.”

“And you are?”

“Badass.”

“Good.”

With that, we step out of the storage room, and after a few corners and turns, the sudden burst of music and laughter envelops us. The party is in full swing, with people mingling and champagne glasses clinking. I take a deep breath, feeling a thrill of excitement mixed with nerves, hoping we don't get singled out for any reason.

Sarissa nudges me forward, and we make our way through the crowd, our eyes scanning the room for any sign of Alessandro Ferrara. I follow her, steps thudding along to the upbeat pump and bass drops of a rugged Latino rap song I hadn't heard before.

The air is thick with the scent of perfume and the pungent odour of cigar smoke. It’s like a mix of heaven and hell here. Even walking side by side with Sarissa, I catch the room's opulent decor. Fancy chandeliers cover the ceiling, casting a hot red illumination around the room. Velvet drapes adorn the walls, while polished black marble floors reflect light around the room like crystal glows. Lavish flowers in shiny vases, massive ice sculptures all around the place. Everywhere, I see diamond-encrusted jewelry, designer gowns, tailored tuxedos, people who looked like they bathed in liquid gold for a living. It's a world of excess and extravagance and I can't help but feel a shiver run down my spine as I realize I'm about to step into the lion's den.

Suddenly, Sarissa's hand closes around my wrist with a right grip. "Look," she whispers, her eyes locked on something across the room.

I follow her gaze, and my heart skips a beat as I see him…

Or, at least what I think should be him.

You could tell the extent to one's superiority through the aura they possessed even from the midst of the crowd. It was hard to make out his face as he had his back turned from my view. At first, all I could see was the long fingers of his perfectly large hands wrapped around his wine cup. Just before he ruggedly downed the whole glass of gin down his throat and aggressively slammed the cup down against the table. I backed up, taken off guard. His next move was to elegantly adjust his suit right after and take his wife's hands, gentleman-style, and guide her through the crowd.

I still could not make out anything from the front, but with that towering height, long dark hair, those Herculean shoulders and arms that looked like they belonged to an ancient Greek God, I knew that a man with that much choking aura had to be none other than Alessandro Ferrara.

How a man could be so rough and elegant at the same damn time.

“Damn,” I say out loud.

Sarissa remains unmoved, staring down the couple through the hood of her cloak as they leave.

“Stay focused, Indigo. Target's leaving,” Sarissa says.

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask her, my anxiety rising.

“They're heading for the counter,” she tells me, watching them like an eagle, “Go there. If you can get his attention enough to infuriate his wife, she should storm out in a fit of rage. When she does, you go for Alessandro, I go for the wife.”

“What if she doesn't leave?” I ask nervously.

“Then I hope you still remember to fight because the next possible outcome is that she ends up beating the shit out of you,” Sarissa responds easily.

I'm suddenly jittering. “Sarissa, what if she can fight too?”

“Well in that case, I don't suppose she'd also be bulletproof.”

“What?”

Sarissa whips out a gun from her cloak. I jump, completely petrified, as I try to cover and hide it.

“I am NOT going to shoot Alessandro's wife, goddamit!” I nearly screamed, “Sarissa, are you fucking crazy?!”

“Relax, nobody's shooting anyone,” she stops, then adds, “Hopefully.” She stuffs the gun back in and looks at me straightly, “Look, I won't have to shoot anyone if everything goes according to plan. Busy best believe if anything happens to you, I'm blowing this fucking place off.”

Sarissa looks dead serious. It scares me.

“Game's on, princess. We've got a wife to snatch and a heart to conquer. Let's go!” She turns me around and shoves me forward and I almost stumble as I launch ahead.

I take a deep breath, my eyes locked on Alessandro Ferrara's broad back and his wife's elegant profile. I make my way towards them, weaving through the crowd with ease as I rehearse how I'd pretend that I am just there to order a drink. They're just a few feet away from where I stand, chatting with a group of people.

“Excuse me,” I muster my most perfect British accent when I reach there, and I glance at Alessandro through my peripheral vision but he doesn't seem to notice my presence with his arms wrapped around his model wife's waist as she laughs like a rich latina woman.

The temptation to sneak a look at this god-like man is strong, but I focus on the bartender and keep my act up, while plotting my next move.

“Um, yes, excuse me, I'd love a— whoops!”

Bingo.

Just as I planned, my purse had ‘accidentally’ dropped on the ground. Following my act, I bend down to pick it up, making sure to give him a full view of what under my dress looks like. My heart racing, I slowly straighten up, expecting him to turn around and notice me.

Alessandro doesn't even flinch.

This time, I look at him and see that handsome devil fixated on his wife like a man under a spell. He chuckles coolly at something she says and softly bites his lips. The man absolutely adores her. And now, getting a good look at her, I see why he does. She's stunning — long, flowing and curly brown hair, tan skin and hazel eyes. I hate her already. I hate how obsessed he was. Maybe I should have taken Sarissa's gun.

I decide to try again, bending down to adjust my stiletto, but he still doesn't notice me and I am getting heated.

The group starts to move and I decide to give this one last shot. As soon as they are in close enough range, I drop my purse again and bend down to my toes… making sure I feel the hem of my dress lift slightly off the bottom of my ass as Alessandro reaches. I dare to rub my ass against him as he attempts to walk past me.

I smile satisfyingly, certain it worked this time as I attempt to get up and make that killer eye contact with him. But just as I'm about to straighten up, a hand clamps down on my shoulder and spins me around and I stumble, my heart skipping a beat as I spurn to meet face-to- face with who I presume was the man I had set out to seduce this night — Alessandro Ferrara.

And his voice booms with an unfriendly aggression as he growls:

“What the fuck do you think you're doing, miss?”