Page 119 of Steal My Heart

“Don’t say it. I need a new nickname, remember?”

He cups my cheeks in his hands. With his typical Angelo Calvani intensity, he tells me, “Get me the mayor’s phone, Remi, so I can put this to bed.”

“I’ve got this,” I assure him, giving him a quick peck.

Angelo scoots out of bed and walks around to my side. I squeal as he scoops me up and playfully tosses me over his shoulder. Carrying me to the bathroom, he deposits me on my feet, turning on the shower.

“Your bathroom is no longer organized within an inch of its life. How does that make you feel?” I say in my best therapist voice. My things are haphazardly tossed on the counter and in the shower; his few items are all lined up in a neat and orderly row.

“That his and her vanities will serve us best,” he announces with a thinly veiled grimace, and I giggle.

“You need more bronzer,” Alessandra decides, dusting more on my exposed chest with a brush.

I blink rapidly, trying to get used to the feel of contacts as I examine myself in the mirror. My face is hidden beneath a full mask. My hair, covered with a black wig. My gown, floor length, hides my outrageously tall chunky platform boots. My breasts and hips, smooshed and wrapped like a mummy.

“What do you think? Am I Alessandra-coded?” I say in my best imitation of an Italian meets sort of Cajun, sort of Southern accent.

“Is that how I sound?” Alessandra wonders, moving the brush to the top of my pale hands.

“My best shot at it. Why? No good?”

“It’s not that. It’s just I didn’t realize I sounded so damn cornbread.” She blanches.

“Things between your brothers sound complicated,” I say gently.

“Complicated.” She snorts. “That’s one way to put it.”

“It may not look like it from where you’re standing, but Angelo really is trying his best.”

“Maybe I’ll whack them both and take over the family.” She tosses the brush in her makeup bag. “That’d be a hell of a plot twist.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

Alessandra shrugs.

“Sometimes you kind of freak me out,” I admit.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Um, yeah. Well, I’m going to steal the mayor’s phone and stay out of the Mississippi. Watch Nola for me, will you?”

“You got it. We’ll serial killer documentary and chill.”

“That’s not what Nola needs, getting any ideas,” I warn.

“She left a dead mouse on the back door yesterday; I’d say she already has ideas,” Alessandra informs me.

“That’s different,” I argue. “She’s not?—”

“Killing for sport? She toyed with the mouse for like an hour before she killed it.”

“No serial killer documentaries for Nola,” I say firmly. The rest, I’m not going to think about as I walk down the hallway in search of Angelo.

“I’m ready, your majesty,” I tell him with a little curtsey. “And you,” I say, picking up Nola and giving her a cuddle. “You wouldn’t torture a mouse, would you?”

“Plead the Fifth, Nola,” Angelo advises.

Maks appears, and he gets me wired and camera’ed up. “No duke man,” he reminds me.