Cognac Villain - A Mafia Romance

COGNAC VILLAIN

One wardrobe malfunction.

Two people who don’t belong together.

Three awful words: “Be my wife.”

Everyone else is at this party to marry the host.

I’m only here until I can get a ride home.

When my dress rips in the world’s worst-timed wardrobe malfunction,

I go find somewhere quiet to fix it.

So I’m standing there in nothing but my heels when,

As my luck would have it, the door opens…

And the man of the hour walks in.

I wish I could say I played it cool.

But it’s been a looong time since anyone has seen me in my birthday suit…

Much less the hottest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

All I want to do is fix my dress, click my heels three times, and be back on my couch in fuzzy slippers.

But Ivan has other ideas.

He’s decided who he’s taking to the altar…

And I don’t have a choice but to say “I do.”

COGNAC VILLAIN is Book One in the Pushkin Bratva duet. Ivan and Cora’s story concludes in Book Two, COGNAC VIXEN!

1

CORA

I can’t believe I let my friends drag me out tonight.

After an endless shift waiting tables at the diner, dishing out lukewarm enchiladas to ungrateful senior citizens who tip like it’s still the Great Depression, the last thing I wanna do is put on a fancy dress and go to a party.

But Francia and Jorden, my fellow Quintaño’s waitresses, insisted. And worse yet, Francia is refusing to let me wear any underwear with this gown I’m borrowing from her.

“Visible panty lines in Vera Wang is, like, a sin against God,” she says in a horrified gasp, as if I’m going straight to hell for even suggesting such a thing. “Under no circumstances are you allowed to wear any. Over my dead freaking body.”

I don’t even get to argue back, because almost immediately after, she gets nauseous and runs to the bathroom to be sick. I would’ve called it a night, but party animal Jorden isn’t letting anything stop her from getting shmammered.

“Nuh-uh. Francia got a stomach bug, but I’ve got the dancing bug,” she proclaims. “I’m going out and I’m getting drunk. And you, my lovely lady companion, are coming with me.”

Dammit.

So Jorden and I call an Uber from the apartment after we finish getting ready. At first, we’re bopping to music, laughing, feeling like Disney princesses on our way to the ball. We both worked doubles at the diner every day this week in order to splurge on a rare night out, so we are determined to live it up.

Fun. That is the mission.

But the closer we get, the queasier I become.

It’s not that Francia’s stomach flu was contagious, either. It’s the line of cars parked along the road that first gives me that nasty stomach drop feeling. Mercedes G-Wagons, Rolls Royces, and Lamborghinis as far as the eye can see.

It reminds me too much of my old life.

I ran from that life for a good reason. I hated the condescension, the fakeness layered on top of everything like glitter sludge. When I left, I swore I’d never be back in places like this.

Yet here I am. Lucky me.

The feeling only gets worse as we approach the house. But then we turn the corner…and there it is.

The mansion is lit up like a jewel in the night. All glass everything. Beautiful people lounge everywhere: on the steps, in the rooms, in little groups of four and five spread out across the back lawn.

“We’re only staying ‘til midnight, Jor,” I warn my friend as we totter up the front steps in high heels. “I’m opening the diner tomorrow and I do not want to be hungover for the Saturday morning rush.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she sasses back. “In bed by midnight or Cora the Explorer will turn into a pumpkin. Roger that.”

Then she hooks her arm through mine and brings us up in front of the bouncer. “Hi,” she purrs.

He glances down at us over the edge of his clipboard. “Names?”

Jorden elbows me hard in the ribs. “Say it,” she hisses under her breath. “Like we practiced.”

I sigh. “Francia Delacour and guest.” We rehearsed that little white lie enough times on the ride over that it comes out more or less natural.

The bouncer takes a long time perusing his list before nodding and stepping aside. “Enjoy your evening, ladies.”

Then we step through the door and into another universe.

Everything gleams white and golden, with bold hints of black marble where you least expect it. There’s an honest-to-goodness fountain in the center of the living room and I’m fairly sure I saw a peacock roaming the grounds out front.

“Is this a house or a palace?” Jorden asks me, dumbfounded.

“Better question,” I reply. “If Francia can get into parties like this, what on Earth is she doing waiting tables at Quintaño’s with us?”

It’s not the only thing about Francia that doesn’t quite make sense. She randomly showed up to work one day with a diamond Cartier tennis bracelet on, for example. When I asked her where she got it, she just laughed and smiled and changed the subject—then it was gone the next time I saw her. She never invites us to her apartment; whenever we hang out, it’s at my place or Jorden’s. Truth be told, I’m not even sure what part of town she lives in.

“Champagne, ladies?” comes a voice from my left. I turn to see a server offering us a selection of glittering flutes of champagne on a silver tray.

“Yes, please!” Jorden chirps. I get one; she snatches up two. “One for me and one for my, uh…other friend.”

The man bows his head and whisks away without another word. Jorden promptly downs the first glass in a single go and sets the empty flute on a nearby pedestal.

“Thirsty?” I tease her.

“Girl, I get, like, one night out per year to enjoy myself. So I’m gonna enjoy myself. Mama deserves to have fun. And,” she adds, bumping my hip with hers, “so do you.”

“Yeah. Fun. Totally.”

But that gut-churning feeling is still alive and well in the middle of my belly.

We meander through the house, snagging hors d'oeuvres off of circulating trays and gawking at the insane architecture. We pass more knots of people, too, congregating on every surface and talking intently.

Someone told me once that background actors in a movie are taught to whisper "watermelon watermelon watermelon" over and over again to pretend like they're having actual conversations. That's what this feels like.

Except instead of whispering "watermelon," they're whispering two words. It takes a while for me to make them out, but when I do, something in the phrase makes me feel like there’s a cold breeze rushing over my skin.

Ivan Pushkin.

Again and again, everywhere we go, that's what I hear.

Ivan Pushkin.

Ivan Pushkin.

It rises up from every single group we pass without fail. There’s a strange sort of skittishness in the air, too. Every female between the ages of eighteen and forty keeps checking over their shoulders like they know something we don’t. Like something important is coming and they want to look their best when it gets here.

We find ourselves stepping out onto the back lawn. It’s festooned with fairy lights branching out from a stage at the far end. A jazz band plays classy music to a crowd of people intent on looking cool by ignoring it. No one dances at parties like these.

Correction: one person dances at parties like these.

“Uh-oh,” Jorden warns with a wicked grin. She points down at her hips, which are starting to shimmy from side to side like they have a life of their own.

“Jor…”

“Uh-oh!” she repeats in a delighted cackle. “I can’t help it, Cora! It’s—I’m—They’re aliiive!”

“We’ve been here for twenty minutes and you’re already wasted?”

“No,” Jorden claps back, “I’m having fun. You should try it sometime.”

I love her, I really do—I just can’t match her energy all the time. Definitely not without significantly more alcohol in me.

She, on the other hand, doesn’t need a drop of the stuff. Even when she’s sober as a judge, Jorden is a ten out of ten. She laughs loud, loves loud, lives loud.

It’s miraculous, honestly, because she’s been busting her butt to make ends meet for as long as I’ve known her. She was raised by a single mom off food stamps, working in diners like Quintaño’s long before she was actually old enough to do so legally.

She’s right: she does deserve a break. Life is hard.

“You go dance,” I say sheepishly. “I’m gonna go find another drink first so I can keep up with you.”

She shrugs and flips her hair over her shoulder. “Fine. But if you find me grinding up on some hot young thing when you get back, it’ll be your loss!”

I grin and kiss her on the cheek. “I hope I find you grinding up on two of them.”

“Don’t tempt me, girl. I just might. I really just might.”

Laughing, we separate and I go back inside the house in search of a bathroom. I put on a brave face while Jorden was watching, but as soon as I find a bathroom, I shut the door behind me, lock it, and draw in a huge, shuddering breath.

This is too much. It was a bad idea to come here. Back to a place like this, around people like this… I turned my back on this world. I never wanted to return.

As soon as I get out of here, I’m going to double down on that vow.

When I touch the back of my neck, my palm comes away soaked with clammy sweat.

“Midnight,” I swear to my reflection in the mirror. “Just a couple more hours, then the clock will strike midnight and you can say goodbye to these people forever.”

Midnight.

We’re almost there.

I rinse my sweaty neck and step out of the bathroom, ready to brave the rest of the party. Through the distant double doors, I catch a brief glimpse of Jorden in the crowd. But before I can even get a step in her direction, I feel an unexpected hand on my waist.

A voice accompanies it. “Hey there, gorgeous.”

I follow the sound of the slurred greeting to a rumpled man with a damp forehead. He’s swaying from side to side.

“Hi.” I give him a tight smile and retreat towards the wall.

“I came over because you look lonely.” His words are breathy, arriving on a cloud of alcohol fumes. “Thought I’d keep ya company.”

I wrinkle my nose. “‘Oh, that’s nice of you. I’m fine, though. But thanks!”

If he understands the implied goodbye, he doesn’t show it. He steps closer, his belly pressing against me. “Who are you with?”

“My boyfriend,” I lie reflexively. “He’s getting me a drink right now.”

He hesitates for a second and then cackles. “Bullshit.”

That throws me for a loop, mostly because he’s so certain. “I don’t—I mean—How would you even know?”

“Because you’re here to meet him. Just like the rest of them.” He says it with more of that same finality. Like he knows something I don’t.

I have lots of questions, but none I want to sit and discuss with this charming fellow. I try to edge past him. “I’m just going to—”

“He isn’t that great, you know.” He shifts with me, blocking my path. “Everyone is here for Ivan, but I’ll show you what a real man can do for you. There’s no line to get to me.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” I mutter to myself. To him, I say, “I have literally no idea what you are talking about. You probably don’t, either. You’re drunk. So if you could just let me go—”

Suddenly, his sweaty, meaty hand slaps my ass.

Distantly, I hear threads of my dress popping. But it’s like paying attention to a dripping faucet when your house is on fire. I have bigger fish to fry.

Anyone who’s ever worked in the food service industry knows that customers do jaw-dropping things. Married men leave their phone numbers on the receipt; friendly-looking grandpas pinch your ass; their wives hiss that you’re a slut beneath their breaths.

And anyone who’s ever been stuck working in the food service industry, even when they’re so sick of all those things, knows that there are two choices: you can take it all on the chin and keep your job—or you can live out the fantasy of every server ever and show the motherfuckers who crossed the line that they messed with the wrong person.

Today, I’m the wrong person.

And this is the motherfucker who crossed the line.