The Lie I Signed With The Mafia CEO

Adeline’s POV "I'm definitely going to get arrested for this." I mutter it under my breath as I approach a Mercedes G-Class with my phone raised. October sunlight hits the glossy black paint, making the car glow against the gray Manhattan sidewalk. Even the tinted windows scream money I'll never have. Perfect. The internet loves rich girls. I'm just borrowing the illusion. My last reel barely reached two hundred views. So much for my grand plan to escape poverty by becoming a content creator overnight. Grad school doesn't pay for itself, and my two part-time jobs barely leave me enough time to sleep. So I fake it. Good lighting is free. Wealthy neighborhoods are free. Looking as though I belong for twenty seconds is free too. And let's be real, who says no to free stuff? Certainly not me. Today's luxury collection consists of an oversized cream sweater hanging off my shoulders, twelve dollars at a Brooklyn thrift store, and jeans with a hole in the knee that I didn't pay extra for. "It's vintage, darling," the seller had said, like that explained the hole, and I was so stupid to believe him. I glance down at my brown boots which have seen better years. But stand in the right light, tilt the camera and crop out reality. Suddenly I'm not broke. I'm a freaking influencer! I stop beside the driver's door and check my reflection in the boutique window. Messy waves frame my face because I skipped the blow dryer, or more accurately, I didn't pay my electric bill on time. In this sunlight, my hazel eyes swirl close to gold. That'll do, filters can handle the rest. I'm mid-pose, phone lifted, when I hear that laugh. Every muscle in my back locks because I know that high-pitched laugh. Everyone at Columbia does. Bianca f*****g Moretti. Engine noise rumbles through the street as her cherry-red convertible pulls alongside the G-Class. Her shiny blonde hair whips through the wind, looking straight out of a shampoo commercial. Designer sunglasses sit perfectly on her head, while three friends drape themselves across the leather seats as though they've been arranged for a magazine shoot. I press myself against the car. ‘Please don't see me.’ "Adeline?" Her voice carries across the street. "Is that you?" ‘Nooo, it's my twin sister, Chadeline.’ My eyes nearly roll to the back of my head. I lower my phone, trying to look like I'm doing anything else, checking messages, reading a caption. Certainly not posing beside a car I'll probably never sit inside. "Bianca." I force a smile. "Fancy meeting you somewhere that isn't making my day worse." Bianca slides her sunglasses down her nose, her eyes gleaming. "I didn't know you could even get into this neighborhood. Oh, nice car." One of her friends leans forward with exaggerated excitement. "Wait... is this the one you bought after all those shifts at the coffee shop? Good for you." "No, Amy. Look at her boots." Another giggles. "If she owns that Mercedes, then I'm the Queen of England." "Is it yours?" Bianca tilts her head, already certain of the answer. She knows I take the train, knows about my two part-time jobs and knows I once counted coins at the Trader Joe's checkout because my card came up short. My tax bracket can't even spell Mercedes. ‘No, it's not mine, you demonic Barbie.’ My mouth parts to say exactly that, but it has its own plan. "It is." Why did I say that? Four years of Bianca finding new ways to remind me exactly where I ranked. Scholarship girl, thrift-store girl, the girl showing up with Tupperware leftovers while everyone else ordered forty-dollar sushi, rotating the same thrift finds while the rest swapped stories about their dads arranging internships over scotch. She'd taken a lot from me. She wasn't getting this too. "Really?" Her tone dares me. ‘Tell her you're joking. Don't dig this hole any deeper.’ But I won't hand this moment to her. "You don't think I can afford it?" "Then prove it," Bianca says, leaning back against her seat. Phones come out, and her friends look far too eager to watch my public execution. They're going to talk about this until graduation. Bianca's thumb taps her screen, and the little red LIVE icon flashes into existence. My stomach flips. She has over 700k followers. "Hi, lovies!" She beams at the camera before swinging it toward me. "You'll never believe who finally joined the rich girls' club. Our darling Adeline bought herself a G-Wagon. Let's congratulate her." I am officially past the point of retreat. Back out now and I'm a pathetic fraud for the rest of my years at Columbia and the internet. My feet take agonizing steps toward the driver's side door. My hand wraps around the handle, the metal warm from the sun. I've watched enough viral skits to know the play. Pretend I forgot my keys in a café nearby, act annoyed, walk away with my 50% dignity intact. The handle gives beneath my hand and the door swings open. My head spins, and I think I might actually pass out. No. No no no. My brain completely logs off when the door swings open. My heartbeat grows so loud that the street seems to disappear. A man looks up from his phone. Dark hair brushed neatly back. A charcoal suit fitted so perfectly it should be illegal. Steel gray eyes settle on me without panic or surprise, only mild irritation at the interruption. His thumb remains suspended above his phone. Those eyes pin me in place. I am so dead. I should grab my thrifted boots and run until the city swallows my shame but Bianca and her entourage are practically standing in the convertible to see what's happening, and one thought pushes everything else aside. Commit or be humiliated forever. My body moves before my brain logs back on. I slide in. We freeze. His hands brush barely against my waist before lifting to avoid it. A muscle ticks in his jaw. He breathes normally, warm air fanning across my chin while I realize I've been holding mine. His eyes stay on mine, so calm that my own panic feels embarrassingly loud. The scent of cedar reaches me, mixed with something darker. Oud, maybe. Expensive either way. "Shut the door." His raspy deep voice rolls into my ears. I blink at him, then realize he's talking to me. I pull the door shut, hands trembling. "Please," I whisper. "Wait for them to leave and I swear I'll explain everything." Outside, Bianca's convertible makes a show of its engine, phones lowering. Through the tinted glass, I see her face one last time, the smirk faltering. The light flashes green and they drive off into the city. The air inside the car suddenly feels heavy. The air conditioner does nothing for the heat under my skin. "I see you're making yourself quite comfortable." I'm still sitting on his lap like I belong there. I quickly scramble to the passenger seat and press myself against the door. "I'm so sorry. I swear I'm not usually a carjacker…I'm so sorry.” He straightens one sleeve, then plucks a single strand of my ginger hair from his jacket between two fingers. He examines it briefly before letting it drift to the floor. "Explain without rambling," he says, Italian accent faint beneath the words. I suck in air. "I lied." He says nothing. Somehow, that's worse. "She asked if the car was mine." Silence. "I panicked." More silence and I swear I can hear crickets chirping. "The door opened. I honestly thought it was empty." I press both hands over my face."This is probably trespassing. Actually, it's definitely trespassing. But please don't sue me.” When I finally stop, the silence stretches long enough for me to calculate how fast I can reach the door handle. He glances toward the street where Bianca disappeared, then back at me. His fingers rest against his knee while his eyes move over my face. "So..." He leans back, his gaze never leaving mine. "You lied about owning my car. That's an unusual way to introduce yourself." As he talks, my gaze slips from his face and lands on a large rust colored stain near the floor mat. My breath falters. Wine, that must be it. Rich people drink expensive red wine. Right? He notices where I'm looking and tilts his head. My heart slams into my throat. "S-sir, I swear it was a mistake. I'll turn myself in to the police if you want." My hand finds the door handle, desperate for an escape. My fingers close around it. I pull and nothing happens. I pull harder. The lock refuses to budge. Before I can try again, his fingers close around my wrist, drawing me back toward him. With how close we are, I can count his dark lashes. "No one leaves until I say the conversation is over." His gaze lingers on my hair. "Little ginger," he murmurs, as though he'd finally decided what to call the problem sitting in his car. I gulp. Okay, I've messed with the wrong person. He continues lingering, one finger tapping against the leather armrest. "You lie very easily." Silence settles between us again,and the seconds stretch until my fingers twitch toward the door handle again. "You'll repay me." "...Excuse me?" If he's expecting money, he is about to be deeply disappointed. "I need a companion for social functions." His gaze meets mine. "One month. Then we're even." "You want me to go to events with you? Sir, this isn't a Chinese series..." He cuts me off. "Agree, and I'll let this slide. Unless you'd prefer I report the incident." He tilts his head, watching the panic return to my face. "I imagine the police would find the security footage quite entertaining." Come to think of it, it sounds ridiculous hearing it from him. "Report me for this? Please, I can easily say I entered by mistake." "You can try if that works behind bars." He says it so calmly that I can't tell whether he's bluffing or sitting on enough influence to turn a stupid mistake into a serious problem. With a man whose presence alone makes my instincts scream, I'm not willing to find out. This is basically blackmail, but I got myself into this, and I can't let a criminal record reach Columbia's Dean. Hold on. The way out is right there. Pretend for a month, avoid expulsion, let Bianca's little show fall apart on its own. How hard could this go? "One month." I lift my chin. "Then we're done." He holds out his hand. "Albert Rossi." His hand is warm when I take it, his grip firm. I pull mine away faster than necessary. "Adeline Carter." He produces a business card from his wallet, heavyweight stock, his name and one word underneath it. CEO. My chest pulls. "My assistant will send the details. First event Saturday." His gaze moves over my thrifted sweater, my wrecked jeans, the bare slope of my shoulder where the fabric slipped. "Do you own formalwear?" Heat moves up my neck. "What do you think I own?" I snap, then breathe in. "Don't worry, I'll manage." His mouth shifts, but he flattens it. "I'll handle the wardrobe. Part of the agreement." "Um, since we're organizing the terms." I clear my throat. "Do I get paid as well? An appearance fee?" His mouth finally curves. I hate that I notice. "No." When I try to retort, he nods toward the door. I grab the handle and step out, the door closing behind me with a final click. The engine purrs as the G-Class pulls into traffic and disappears toward Park Avenue. I look down at the card in my hand, his cologne clinging to my sweater. My screen lights up. Unknown number: Gala event Saturday, 7 PM. Car will collect you at 6:30 PM. Dress will arrive Friday. —M. Romano, Executive Assistant to Mr. Rossi. They have my address just like that. Of course they do. Men like Albert Rossi don't do anything halfway, though apparently he's too greedy to pay me for my premium presence. The screen lights up again. Different number entirely and my smile dies. NUL/: Walk away from Albert Rossi before he destroys you. This is your only warning.