Gilded Princess: A Dark Mafia Romance (Five Families Book 1) Read online

  I smooth my hands down the bodice, marveling at the way it hugs my frame like a second skin. It’s crafted to look like iridescent feathers overlapping one another, providing just enough coverage where I’m not indecent but still showing a few peeks of skin.

  Two thick swaths of fabric from my waist up over my breasts to attach to a thin satin strap around my neck. There’s a purposeful cutout from my belly button to my neck, showing just the barest curve of my breasts. Black silk falls from my waist to pool around my feet in a small train.

  The overall effect is just stunning. I feel sexy and powerful, like I could not only reach a goal but crush it without much effort. A dangerous feeling.

  Turning to the side, I take in my profile, then peek over my shoulder to look from that angle. My hair reaches the bottom of my shoulder blades, and the black satin fabric clings to my ass in a way that boosts my confidence a few notches.

  But my favorite part is the back of the dress—or the lack thereof. The entire back of the dress is open, so you only see a few feathers wrap around my ribs to stop at my lower back. My deep red hair looks like lava as it gently tickles my back. I curled it into soft glam waves tonight and pinned it back at the sides to give off that old Hollywood vibe.

  No, there’s no way that Dolores forgot about this dress. Off the top of my head, I know at least five girls who would’ve grabbed this dress in an instant.

  Lainey would love this whole look. I snap a quick photo to send her later and exit the bathroom. I follow the slow trickle of people walking toward the ballroom, murmuring my hellos to familiar faces.

  That’s something that always struck me as odd. They require masquerade masks at this event every year, but it’s usually the same group of people who attend, so the idea of anonymity always felt a little silly. I mean, sure, these masks conceal a portion of your face, but usually I can deduce who it is by who they’re talking to or the sound of their voice.

  When we first started attending this gala a few years ago, I let myself get swept up in the romanticism of it all. I thought for sure that I’d meet my very own white knight or Prince Charming underneath a mask. He’d whisk me off my feet, twirling me until our legs cramped from dancing and our cheeks ached from smiling.

  But I was fourteen and most of the guys my age were entitled assholes who couldn’t handle their champagne. A few even tossed their cookies all over the dance floor. That was enough to kill any stars in my eyes, at least temporarily.

  It’s still the same group of assholes, but at least they can handle their alcohol now.

  A teeny, tiny part of me still secretly hopes someone will sweep off my feet one year. Mostly, I just use it as a good excuse to wear a stupidly expensive dress and dance the night away while sipping on expensive champagne and popping delicious hors d'oeuvres in my mouth.

  Usually I have Lainey and Mary by my side, and we spend the evening together. This is the first year I’ve gone without them, and I have a feeling that this is just the tip of the iceberg.

  I naively thought that we’d all room together forever—at least until we graduate college. But then Aunt Lana met some random guy in Boston, who’s apparently connected, and now Lainey’s all tangled up in a mess that I’m still trying to understand.

  Lainey’s being taken care of by her soon-to-be stepbrothers slash boyfriends, so I only have to worry about my sister. My sister, who snuck in late last night and hasn’t left her room all day today.

  I exhale, knowing that if she doesn’t start talking to me soon, I’ll have to whip out my last-ditch move and call Mom. And neither one of us wants that.

  Pushing my worries to the back of my mind, I pick up my skirts and climb the small staircase that leads into the main room.

  My heart skips a beat when I get my first uninterrupted view of the ballroom.

  The committee outdid themselves this year. It’s transformed into an enchanted rainforest at sunset with shades of golden yellow and bright peach infused in everything. Soft, gauzy fabric runs from one wrought-iron chandelier to another, creating a tent-like effect.

  Topiary trees frame the walls alongside various big, leafy plants, giving the space a lovely pop of color contrast. Plump red berries weigh down branches of the trees next to me, and perfectly formed Cara Cara oranges hang from the tree across the room.

  Two dozen peach and golden peonies make up the centerpieces on every table, and plush overstuffed chairs and chaises in deep velvet fabrics add a rich element. Caterers dressed in all-black with black masks circulate the spacious room with trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne. I snag a flute off a nearby tray and take a sip. Bubbles erupt on my tongue, quickly followed by the crisp, sweet taste of strawberries.

  I take a moment to look around and get a feel for the room. A ten-piece string band plays in the corner, mixing radio hits with classical pieces, and I idly wonder if I can convince them to play a little Taylor Swift. My lips twitch at the idea of the mayor and his wife, who are currently snacking on prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, dancing to the instrumental version of “Shake It Off.”

  I spot Blaire and her posse of frenemies from school making their way toward me, and I flash them a polite smile. Blaire leads the pack in a knockout dress that I’d bet my life she had custom-made.

  “Solo tonight, Madison?” Blaire asks with a raised brow as she stops next to me.

  Sammi, Peggy, and Hilary, all classmates at St. Rita’s, stand around us and sip champagne. One of the perks of being the youth of the wealthy, connected, and well-respected members of society, I suppose. No one cares if we sip on champagne at these types of events. Dressed in what I’m sure was a coordinated effort, all three girls look beautiful in their blue dresses, each shade complementary to one another.

  I quirk my lips and cock my head to the side as I scan all four girls before coming back to Blaire. She’s not an enemy, and while I consider her a friend, I don’t trust her with my most-guarded secrets like I do with Lainey and Mary. “You know I like options, B.”

  Blaire stares over the rim of her champagne flute as she tips it back for a sip. The deep emerald color of her form-fitting mermaid-style dress sparkles under the color-diffused light.

  “Some of us don’t have that luxury,” she muses.

  I know she’s referring to the fact that her parents signed a glorified marriage contract when she was still a toddler.

  That’s how it is for a lot of these people here tonight. Most of the married couples here were arranged, and because of some archaic rule about bloodlines and shareholders, most of these families continue the tradition of arranged marriage.

  Blaire’s family is old money, made their fortune in oil, and rumor on the street is that she won’t inherit her family’s company—and fortune—until she’s married with an heir.

  It’s a crock of patriarchal bullshit if you ask me.

  In a rare show of vulnerability last year, Blaire broke down in the women’s locker room and told me the whole thing. I’d never betray her confidence and share what she told me, but sometimes I wonder if there’s something I can do to help her.

  I can’t imagine being eighteen and knowing that your husband has already been chosen for you. A virtual stranger who’s going to be your partner for life, regardless of your opinions on the matter. If you’re lucky, you get matched with someone who’s pleasant enough and who won’t flash his mistresses around town for all to see on Page Six the next day.

  And how sad is that? Your best-case scenario is a man who won’t publicly shame your sham of a marriage. No, thank you.

  The concept of love is laughable to most of the people in this room. Something reserved for fiction and adolescents.

  My mom isn’t a saint by any means, and most of the time, she does the bare minimum in the adulting department, but one thing I can say with confidence is that she’d never marry my sister or me off like that. And it’s not because of some misplaced sense of love either.

  I’m sure she loved my dad, and I know he loved her.
But they didn’t have that fairytale type of love, which is ironic considering the stories he used to tell me when I was young. It was all princesses and white knights and eternal love.

  My parents met when they were young, and my dad enlisted soon after they got married, leaving a pregnant wife at home. He was gone more than he wasn’t, and I think we all got used to that kind of life—one that didn’t include him.

  “Earth to Madison.” Blaire waves a manicured hand in front of my face, snapping me out of my fog.

  I flash her a smile, and some of the tightness around her eyes relaxes. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

  “Babe. Just wait a few hours until it breaks up a little. I brought party favors,” Sammi says as she waggles her eyebrows and shakes her palm-sized handbag for the evening.

  I work hard not to clench my jaw and settle on a forced smile and a noncommittal hum.

  “Knock it off, Sammi. You know Madison doesn’t roll,” Peggy says as she flashes an apologetic look in my direction.

  Sammi recoils and looks at Peggy with a frown. “Like I’d bring molly here with all of this and have the worst trip ever? No thanks. I brought my perfectly legal prescription tonight. You know, in case I need to concentrate.” She smirks at us with her chin tilted high.

  “Thanks, Sammi. I’ll let you know, okay?” The olive branch seems to pacify her and they move the conversation to who’s wearing what. I have no intention of taking her up on that offer, but I don’t need to voice that right now. She’ll forget all about it in thirty minutes, anyway.

  After ten minutes and another glass of champagne, it catches up to me, and I excuse myself to the ladies’ room. It’s not the same bathroom that I used earlier, but it’s no less luxurious. They brought the enchanted forest theme in here with colors of deep reds and mellow oranges, and there’s even a small garden’s worth of greenery in the powder room next to the full-length mirror.

  Once I finish and reapply my lipstick, I walk back into the ballroom. My steps are slow as I people-watch. The crowd is decidedly larger than an hour ago, and I’m a little surprised at the size.

  The familiar notes of Beyoncé hit my ears, and I can’t hold back the chuckle at the boldness of the band tonight. A smile spreads across my face, and I glance around the room to see if anyone else has noticed. I see a few smiles and giggles, but it’s mostly going unnoticed. Shame.

  I glance at the huge ornate iron clock on the wall and silently count down the minutes until a DJ replaces the strings and the dance floor opens up. Only thirty minutes. I can do that. I nod my head along with the beat, impressed with the violinist as she absolutely smashes this song.

  I grab another glass of champagne from a passing waiter with a smile, content to watch them fill the atmosphere with a whimsical take on this sultry song. My nerves jump with the need to dance, but I don’t leave my spot along the edge of the room.

  One minute, I’m enjoying the instrumental sounds of “Drunk In Love” and the next minute, my focus is pulled away almost involuntarily. My heart skips a beat before it beats in double-time as my awareness picks up on something behind me. Or someone.

  “You look gorgeous tonight, as always.” My breath freezes at his familiar voice. Too many emotions barrage me at once, and I don’t have time to sort through them or settle on just one. “This dress is exquisite on you.” I feel the barest of touches as he drags the tip of his finger down my spine, and a trail of goosebumps follow his ghosted touch.

  “Matteo.” I say his name on an exhale, my heart clenching at the thought of him here, now, after so much time.

  I don’t even need to turn around to see his face. He’s the only man I’ve ever met who’s had this kind of effect on me. Lust sends a flare up through my body, but shame settles it back down. Sometimes I still think about that night, and I can’t believe that I didn’t see it coming.

  I shift my weight, but his warm palm on my back stops me from turning around to face him. I beg my traitorous body to harden its resolve against this charming asshole. But she’s a fickle bitch, and she still craves his touch after all this time.

  “Shh, doll. Don’t turn around. We’re concealed in the shadows here—”

  Indignation soars through my veins and my hands fist on my sides. “What? Don’t want your girlfriend to see you with your hands on another woman?” I’m actually a little shocked at the scorn in my voice, but the deeply feminist part of me cheers me on, ready to kick his ass verbally.

  He chuckles, this deep, masculine sound that has my toes curling inside my Jimmy Choos.

  He slides his hand up my spine until it tunnels underneath my hair, settling at the base of my neck. His long, warm fingers flex and tangle in my wavy strands. He gives them a gentle tug, and a gasp leaves my mouth unbidden.

  “I don’t even have my hands where you really want them. Not yet.”

  His words have the desired effect on me and a flash of lust rolls through my traitorous body.

  His hand leaves my hair, and he trails a single fingertip down my arm, linking it with my pinky finger for two seconds. “I’ll be seeing you, Cherry.”

  The move is so reminiscent of how he was when we first met—from the nickname to the familiar pinky-holding that my heart squeezes painfully.

  Matteo hooks a finger around my pinky as we walk down the path in Central Park. It’s an unexpected move but not unwelcome. We haven’t been dating long, and I like his version of holding hands.

  I twist my lips to the side to stifle the ridiculous grin that’s trying to break free.

  Mom came to the city to take my sister and me out to lunch with her newest boyfriend a few days ago. She told me through her pained, perfect smile that my smile isn’t as straight as Mary’s. I never thought about it much before, but now that she’s planted the seed of doubt, I can’t shake it. She made an appointment for the orthodontist for me next week, so at least I’ll get it taken care of soon.

  “It’s a nice day for a walk, yeah?” He looks at me with a grin, his posture relaxed and confident. In an all-black suit minus the jacket, he looks like a young celebrity strolling through the park on a Wednesday afternoon. Black Ray-Bans shield his eyes, and his hair is tousled in that effortlessly messy way that shouldn’t be as good-looking as it is.

  I quirk a brow, desperately trying to calm the few butterflies that slowly circle my insides. I like Matteo, like really like him. We’ve been seeing each other for just shy of six months now. But we don’t get to see each other too often, since we’re at different schools. Plus, he’s a couple years older than me.

  And somehow, I’ve managed to keep him a secret from my mom. Once she meets someone, she either gets her claws in them, or they leave. Either way, it’s game over.

  And I think I want to keep him.

  “Aren’t you going to get warm in that?” I ask. It’s September, but in New York City, it’s still hot this time of year. We lucked out with a cool seventy-degrees today.

  He pinches the fabric of his shirt between two fingers and lifts it out a few times with a smile. “What? This? Nah, I’m perfect. I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

  I playfully roll my eyes and nudge his arm with my shoulder. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Matteo.”

  He tugs me closer with his grip on my pinky finger. “Good, because I’m going wherever you are, Cherry.”

  I slam my lids shut and count to ten in French. It’s about all I can remember from French class. Madame Fontaine was hard to follow, and well, school has never been my strong suit.

  It does the trick though, and when I open my eyes and spin around, the space behind me is empty.

  I knew it would be though. Matteo never stays in one place too long. I exhale a shaky breath, my loose strands of hair billowing out in front of my face. My heart beats frantically, fluttering against my ribs like a bird trapped in a cage. I press a hand to my chest and close my eyes again, willing my heart to calm down.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  I snap my eyes open, su
rprised to see Blaire’s honey-eyed gaze in front of mine. Her head tilts to the side and a crease she’d be horrified to know is there mars her brows.

  I paste a smile on my face, and I’m thankful when she doesn’t call me on it. We’re both skilled enough to spot a fake smile a mile away—it’s practically the language of the entitled.

  I open my mouth to respond with some stretched truth, but the lights dim and the ten-piece string band stops playing and exits the stage. Someone whoops, drawing my attention to the corner where the guest DJ is setting up, saving me from answering Blaire.

  “Who’s that?” I tip my chin toward the corner.

  She stares at me for a moment longer before slowly shifting so she’s standing next to me and looking in the same direction. “Goes by Zebra.”

  I quirk a brow, but I don’t reply as I watch him set up, grateful for the few moments to get myself under control. To remind myself that I’m not that same girl with hearts in her eyes.

  I watch the tables empty as the older generations retreat to the edges of the room and small patios outside the French doors. They sit at the small tables inside shallow alcoves. No doubt the next round of marriage contracts and familiar mergers are being signed tonight. I can only imagine how many other deals will be agreed upon over handshakes and too many cocktails.

  “I know, I wasn’t sure about him either, but apparently he’s the hottest thing in the underground in London right now.”

  I nod a few times. “Good. I’m ready to dance.”

  “Me too, girl. Me too.”

  The familiar sounds of The Chainsmokers and Daya pump through the speakers and Blaire hooks her elbow in mine with a sly smile, and we head for the dance floor.

  Chapter Four

  MADDIE

  Flashes of colorful fabrics pulse around me in tune with the strobe lighting, the brightness sharp in contrast to the dimmed lighting. The air is thick and humid as the steady beat thumps through the air, settling in my veins and infusing me with the familiar need to move to the music.