Page 4 of Snowed in with the Mafia
I’ve never been in a helicopter before, and I remove all thoughts about crashing to my death. I’m not going to die. I need to be around for Gianna.
I’ve asked Manny’s no-nonsense mother to come and stay with Gianna while I’m away. She’ll protect my sister from the female vultures in our home. I made Manny promise he would take care of Gianna if anything happened to me. Manny is the only man I trust with Gianna right now. He only has eyes for her. One day, he’s going to ask her to marry him, and it’s going to be the most amazing day ever.
“Alessia.”
I turn at the sound of my name. The Vergine Selettore, possibly in her late sixties, is as beautiful as a thirty-year-old. Gosh, how does she get her skin to look like glass?
“Madama,” I say, reaching out my hand to her.
She looks me up and down, nods, then throws her arms around me.
“Even more beautiful in person. But now I see the fire in your soul and the fight in your eyes. I hope you’re the one to bring that jezebel Martina, her stupid daughter, and that snake of a husband down to their knees in the mud for blackmailing us both into this incredibly foolish scheme of theirs.”
At least she knows I’m not here willingly.
“On the plus side, you’re exactly what I would have chosen for the Falchi myself. A small victory for me, but still a victory. Now all you have to do is sign these.”
She pulls out a few sheets of paper from an envelope she’d been clutching in her hand.
“What are they for?”
“Just the usual. An indemnity form stating you won’t sue the Falchi should there be any damage or injuries to your body during procreation.”
“What?” I ask, stunned.
“Trust me, it won’t come to that. These are just standard waivers. Come now, Alessia, sign these papers. Your car will be here shortly.”
I manage to skim the first few sheets, but she hurries me through the rest. None of it is going to matter, anyway.
“Done,” she says triumphantly, relief washing over her as she shoves the papers back into the envelope. But her smile is more nervous now. “There is light at the end of this. You have no idea how much power you’ve been given, Tesoro,” she says, hugging me again.
What on earth is that supposed to mean?
I don’t get to ask what she means, and I barely manage to grab my single suitcase before she ushers me out of the building into the cold. I dismiss a sleek black limo that slides up in front of the building until the chauffeur steps out and walks toward me.
“Good luck,” the Vergine Selettore says after handing the chauffeur the envelope containing the papers I signed and turning on her heel, leaving me alone on the sidewalk.
“Signora,” the smartly dressed man says, bowing his blonde head.
“Oh no, it’s just Alessia,” I correct him.
“Lady Alessia. My name is Jackson, and I’m your chauffeur,” he says, then gestures to my suitcase. “May I?” His smile is kind and warm, offering me a small reprieve from my rollercoaster thoughts.
Okay, so they sent a limousine. Whatever.
Jackson drives us to a private hangar. There, he hands the pilot the envelope and then helps me into the helicopter. He catches a glimpse of my frayed nerves and assures me I’ll be fine. I’m now the precious cargo of the formidable Falchi, and the pilot knows to deliver me safely or face unspeakable consequences for him and his family.
If that wasn’t overkill, I don’t know what is.
It takes another ninety minutes before I arrive at the cabin in one piece, and I’m sure I haven’t taken a proper breath until my feet touch the ground again.
If I were impressed by wealth and luxury, I’d probably be awestruck by this place. It isn’t really a cabin; it’s a white mansion set against a backdrop of snow-covered mountains.
Standing there to meet me after I disembark is a beautiful woman dressed in a pantsuit, with thick red hair sticking out from under her fur hat. The pilot hands her the envelope, and then she addresses me.
“Signora, my name is Eileen,” she says, draping a soft white blanket over my shoulders. “I’m so privileged to make your acquaintance.”
Again with the signora. “Oh no, it’s just Alessia,” I correct her. I’m a twenty-three-year-old virgin, for crying out loud. “And thank you,” I add, smiling at her.
