MY MAFIA

The Look of Luxury

Hours later, Susan stood in front of the big mirror in the penthouse dressing room. Marco, always quiet, had given her a dress that shimmered like dark water – a smooth, backless dress that fit her perfectly. Its dark color looked striking against her pale skin. Diamonds, small and sparkling, glittered at her neck and wrists, catching the light. Her usually messy hair was styled in soft waves, framing a face made up to look both pretty and a little hard to reach. She looked like someone else, someone powerful, someone who belonged in Dante Moretti’s world. It was strange, the whole situation.

"The car is ready, Miss Reynolds," Marco’s voice was flat as always, pulling her away from her reflection.

The drive to the gallery was short, the city lights a blur outside the window. Marco gave her a small, fancy bag. Inside was a sleek, unfamiliar device. "This is to record what you see," he said, his eyes meeting hers quickly. "You just speak to activate it. It's very sensitive, but secret. Only Mr. Moretti can hear what you record."

As they pulled up to the gallery, a grand, lit-up building in a fancier part of the city, Susan felt a wave of nerves, but then a strange, exciting feeling. This wasn't just acting; this was stepping into a world where how you looked was everything and secrets were worth a lot.

She got out of the car, the cool evening air touching her bare skin. The gallery was full of quiet talking, the soft sound of champagne glasses clinking, and gentle classical music. Fancy men and women, dressed in expensive clothes and sparkling jewels, walked around beautiful sculptures and bright paintings. Susan took a deep breath, letting the new person she was pretending to be settle over her. She wasn't Susan Reynolds, the waitress. Tonight, she was someone else. Someone important. Someone there to watch.

She looked around the room, noticing small things. A man who kept twitching, always adjusting his tie. A woman with too much makeup, her laugh a bit too loud. A quiet talk in a hidden corner near a bronze statue. Every small detail was a possible hint, a piece of the puzzle Dante wanted her to solve.

She moved slowly, holding a glass of champagne, her eyes moving over the art, stopping just long enough to seem interested. But her real focus was on the people. She heard bits of conversations – quiet mentions of "the collection," "unexpected problems," and a repeated phrase: "the missing piece."

A tall, important-looking man with silver hair and sharp eyes came up to her. He seemed like someone used to being in charge. "A stunning piece, isn't it?" he said, pointing to a colorful painting of a woman lying down.

Susan gave a cool, practiced smile. "Yes, it is. Though I must say, I find the artist's use of color quite... bold for that time period."

He raised an eyebrow, looking a little surprised. "A smart observation. Not many people notice those small things. I am Mr. Dubois."

"And I am… Anna," Susan replied, using the name Marco had given her for the night. She felt a thrill of danger and excitement. This was it – the game had started.