Page 50 of A Love Most Fatal

“First, your clothes.” Willa rifles in her big leather bag and pulls out a sheet of paper that she hands to me. This is not a digital family, apparently. “A list of all of the items you’ll need.”

Everything is categorized, three different pairs of shoes, button ups in three different colors (or non-colors: gray, white, black, two of each), pants, accessories, hair products?—

“I don’t know how to find all this stuff, and even if I did, I don’t think I could afford it,” I say. Even with the unhinged amount of money Vanessa is going to pay me, buying nice items in each category would quickly eat up two months’ pay.

“You don’t have to worry about that, sweetie,” Claire pats my knee like my own mother would. “We have a shopper.”

A shopper. Of course. Reasonable.

“We’ll pay,” Vanessa says. “Consider it your uniform.”

“Great.” Because it’s a brilliant idea to take even more money from the mafia. “Anything else?”

“Your hair,” Willa says.

I thought the slide show was done, but no, the next slide has numbered photos of four different men with different, though similar, haircuts. All smooth, which my hair has never really been.

“You can choose between one of these hairstyles and our stylist will show you how to use the products.” Willa clicks off the TV and goes to sit on her husband’s lap, presentation concluded. “Any questions?”

“Who will I say I am, then? What credentials does a middle school teacher from Connecticut have to find Vanessa a husband?”

“Great fucking question,” Mary mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear. Vanessa tugs one of Mary’s braids and Mary pastes on a saccharine smile. Looks unnatural.

“If they ask, we imply you’re a consigliere. Leo and Willa have already started the rumors,” Vanessa says. I don’t know what that word means or even how I will spell it to Google it later, but I think inGodfatherterms, we’re pretending that I’m equivalent to Tom Hagen, which is hilarious. Math teachers are known to make rock-solid consultants. I can understand why Mary can’t keep from rolling her eyes every twenty seconds.

“It’s an honor,” Leo says with a heavy pat on my back. “Don’t fuck it up, brother.”

“Right.” I should have more questions, everyone is looking at me like they’re just waiting for me to ask something, but they’ve made themselves very clear: do my research, act the part, get new clothes, and fix my gross, stupid hair.

“I should be good.” I open one of the folders without really looking at the pages, and skim over my spare notes. “Yep. No questions.”

This was not the summer I intended, but at least I have something to do.

18

VANESSA

My eyes are burningas I stare at the spreadsheet that accounting sent over, the numbers blurring together. I don’t usually look at reports like this, but three sites have come in over budget this month, and not by a small margin by any means. My site managers have written lengthy explanations to state exactly why this is the case, all referring to their spreadsheets and noting where cuts can be made. Whatever the problem is, trying to get to the bottom of any of it is mind-melting and not in my purview.

“You’ve looked better,” a low voice says from my doorway. Cillian leans against the frame, a crooked smirk on his face.

I lean back in my chair with a huff and rub my eyes.

“Thank you kindly, asshole.”

Cillian holds his wide, tattooed hands up in surrender. “I thought honesty was our top rule in this relationship. That and, of course, never go to bed angry.”

“Sure, sure.” I stand from my desk chair and stretch my hands over my head then roll my neck back and forth. Cillian slides my glass of water across the desk to me and I take a sip.

“What do you need?” I ask. “I didn’t think you were coming here today.”

“Was in the area.” Cillian picks up a piece of paper off my desk and holds it up to squint at it. “Picked your darling mother up one of those butter cakes. Just who are you interviewing with questions like these?”

I try to pull the sheets from his hand, but he holds it up out of my reach and my pride is much too large to try to jump for it.

“I told you I’ve been looking for a husband,” I say.

“And what doesthishave to do with finding a good husband?”