Ali Piedmont

Chapter 1: Elle

It's amazing what a little champagne can do.

It's also amazing what a six-foot-four Russian mob boss will do—when he's in loooove.

I tilt the tall, cool glass of bubbly to my lips and watch my best friend Kat try on yet another dress. I'm lounging on a sofa—a settee, a divan?—a something expensive and lush and fancy in a Fifth Avenue dressing room that is bigger than my Brooklyn apartment.

Kat looks at herself, grimaces, then meets my eyes in the mirror. We both feel out of place here, and if we didn’t have Gray Petrokov's—aka Kat's new husband's and aforementioned Russian mobster's—black AmEx, we couldn't afford to wipe our butts in the bathroom (which is also bigger than my apartment).

She's a petite, curvy Irish girl with dark hair, freckles sprinkled like cinnamon all over her lovely face, and green eyes that sparkle when she's happy. Kat is embarrassed because every dress the snooty salesgirl brings her shows off all her curves. She's used to hiding under giant T-shirts and loose jeans. She doesn't know she's beautiful, because no one ever told her she was.

Kind of the exact opposite of me—ever since I developed double-Ds in grade school, I've been told I'm beautiful countless times over. I mean, by grown adult men when I was still eating Lunchables. And it has never stopped. I'm twenty-four now, and believe me, being valued for my long blonde hair, my breasts, my ass, my naturally tan skin—it gets old. And rings false.

It never made my mother happy, after all.

"I think it's too expensive," Kat whispers to me. "And too tight!"

I shake my head, too tipsy to move from the lush couch. I run my fingers over the smooth, velvet surface. "Gray will love it, Kat. You look gorgeous."

Kat blushes, and I hide my smile behind the glass, pressing the smooth rim to my lips. One of my students' questions from earlier in the day floats across my drunken mind: precious little Olivia asked where glass comes from. Since I teach kindergarten, I wasn't exactly prepared with a MENSA-type answer. A quick Google search on my phone and I was able to tell my precocious kiddos that glass is, in fact, made from liquid sand.

You heat the sand at a ridiculously high temperature, and its very structure changes. It will never be sand again. It cools into a beautiful new element. The transformation reminds me of what Kat’s going through right now. Two weeks ago, Kat's abusive father, for all intents and purposes, sold her to Brooklyn's most powerful Russian mafia Syndicate. In order to save his life, he gave away his daughter's.

She would have been sent away to the Brighton Beach brothels, and I'm sure a virgin like Kat would have fetched a high price. Well, a former virgin. Because at the last minute, Gray Petrokov showed up and married her.

I'd met Kat in high school, so I'd heard about Gray for years. He was her childhood friend, confidant, and secret first love. Then he began working for the mob, like his father. He promised he would come back and rescue her.

Instead, he disappeared.

But now Gray's back, bossy as hell, sinfully sexy, and obviously crazy about Kat. But she doesn't realize how he'd do anything in the world for her. Of course, she's head-over-heels for the big guy and has been since they were kids, and he can't seem to see that, either.

But I have this feeling that all this insanity with the mob and Brighton Beach brothels and Kat's shotgun wedding will transform them. Kat's very core is being put through the fire, but I sense that what emerges—for both Kat and Gray—will be beautiful.

Of course, glass is also highly breakable.

I just hope that nothing shatters them or their newfound love.

Gray's in charge of his crew. But there's a crazy Russian mob boss named Solonik—who ranks higher than Gray, I guess—and he wants Gray and Kat dead. So now Kat says Gray is aiming to overthrow an entire mafia family…

Just to save her.

So much drama. And beyond the mob stuff, this is why I don't date. At least, not seriously. Who has time for all the angst, when there's champagne to be sipped, various men to be flirted with, and countless bar tops on which to dance after a long day herding attention-deficit children?

Not me.

Then again, as I watch Kat's glowing face, I get the feeling that true love is different.

But true love is hard to find. Even in a city as enormous as New York.

Kat tries on another dress, this one black and plunging and divine. I sit up and catch a glance of what I'm wearing. Good grief.

I'd gone shopping in my teaching outfit, and since I teach kindergartners, this consisted of a big, blue shirt that doesn't show my cleavage, and that I won't mind throwing out if paint, snot, or yogurt explodes all over it. Oh, and my kitten tights. I love my kitten tights: they are comfortable, black and covered entirely in pictures of floating cats' faces.

All over.

I get looks on the subway when I wear 'em, but my students think they're hilarious. And when you're dealing with twenty-three kids whose collective average attention span is twenty-three seconds, you'll do—and wear—anything to keep them looking at you.

Somehow I'm still wearing my kitten tights, but instead of my oversized shirt, I've tried on a diamond-studded bustier that Madonna circa 1985 would've stolen in a heartbeat. It shows off my assets to a ridiculous degree.

I look down to see if the bustier is covering even half my girls, and that's when the tiara I forgot I was wearing slips off and falls onto my lap.

Good God. I squint. I think they're real diamonds. I reach up and put it back on my head—because why the hell not? it's not like I'll actually take it home—when suddenly a loud bang! explodes from the front of the store.

I jump up, as does Kat and Mandy, the salesgirl.

It happens again. It sounds like a bear is rattling the locked, glass front doors.

And like he might barrel through at any moment.

Kat, Mandy and I run from the dressing room in the back through the small boutique toward the front door. And that's when I stop hard, on a dime.

It's not a bear. It's a man, but he's as big as a wild creature. The stranger trying to tear the door off the hinges is tall, dark, handsome—and looks enraged. He's got one massive hand on the glass door's handle, shaking it, and the other hand is banging on the glass so hard I'm worried it will shatter.

He's standing on the immaculate Upper East Side sidewalk, the midnight-blue sky behind him. Then he looks up, sees me through the glass, and his vivid blue eyes lock onto mine. He's wild but beautiful, like a wolf. The blue-black sky behind him is the perfect backdrop for his dark, feral stare.

He's a study in shadows. Black jeans, black T-shirt, black ink tattoos swirling over his sculpted arms. His hair is probably dark brown, but in the dark street it looks black and blends into the night. He has a short, lush beard. A five o'clock shadow gone wild.

That beard. It's like all my secret lumberjack fantasies come to life.

I'd never believed that bullshit about love at first sight. I mean, men have been using that line on me for over a decade. But despite all their pretty declarations of love, their feelings never lasted.

And I'd certainly never been in love with any of them.

But as soon as I stare into those cobalt eyes, I can't look away. And he's staring straight at me. He looks even more out of place than me or Kat. We're in this fancy-ass boutique, but we're really Brooklyn girls. I don't even know where this man looks like he came from. My dreams, I guess.

He's huge. I'm five-five, and if we stood next to each other—if I unlocked the glass door to this fancy boutique and let him in—he would tower over me.

It hits me that I'm actually considering unlocking the door.

We're still just staring at each other, taking each other in, when he raises his hand, points at me, and shouts my best friend's name.