MY HEART BELONGS TO MY MAFIA KING

POV: Olivia

When people ask how I managed to achieve a perfect GPA, secure numerous scholarships, and receive excellent recommendation letters, I usually give them a simple answer like "positivity" or "resourcefulness."

What I don't tell them is the truth: all those hours of studying, endless volunteer work, and sleepless nights were fueled by one thing-uncontrollable, gut-wrenching anxiety.

But at least it earned me an invitation to something special.

The Bluff City Ball: Memphis University's annual charity gala where the most prestigious alumni, wealthiest donors, and a select few top students gather and socialize until the early hours of the morning.

And I'll be there too.

As one of this year's valedictorians, I'm among the lucky few undergraduates who received an invitation. It seems that my four years of blood, sweat, and tears are finally paying off.

At least, that's what my roommate's pep talk about finding true love would have me believe.

Would I prefer to be snuggled in bed, engrossed in my favorite steamy vampire novel? Probably. But would skipping this party also mean missing a chance to meet some attractive, wealthy guys? That's also a possibility. There's only one way to find out.

"Olivia! You made it!"

Speak of the devil. I turn just in time to see my longtime roommate and best friend, Emily Young, teetering towards me on four-inch stilettos. Her naturally black hair is now a soft ginger, the latest in her series of color experiments, and she's donning a classy dark amber silk midi dress.

"Yeah," I force a smile, "Guess your pep talk paid off after all."

She pulls me into a hug before I can protest, and refuses to let go until I return the gesture with just as much enthusiasm.

"See? I knew you'd change your mind once I mentioned the free food."

Emily and I met freshman year of college, when we were both randomly assigned as each other's roommates in the honor's dorm. We've been friends ever since, though we're about as opposite as could be. She's a Computer Science major with a penchant for fashion. I'm an English major with a book addiction. Together, we make one whole normal-functioning human.

Well, sort of.

"Yeah," I shrug, "Also, Dr. Ray might have given me a last-minute A on the condition that I attend, so..."

My mental health might be taking a ride through the garbage disposal, but my grades are in perfect order. Go figure.

"Dr. Ray, as in, the public speaking professor?"

"That's the one."

Emily whistles appreciatively.

"Nice. So is that why you're wearing..." she trails off, but her eyes scan my dress with confusion. "You know, since you found out last minute?"

She's been trying to get me more into fashion for years, to no avail. My scholarship doesn't cover things like ball gowns and carriages, unfortunately. And unlike her, I don't have men lining up to buy me luxury clothes and handbags.

"You mean this isn't vintage Dior?" I fake gasp. "That cashier at Marshalls must've been lying to me"

Emily rolls her eyes, but I twirl in a circle anyway, letting the awkward blue maxi-dress spin out around me.

"It's the only thing they had in stock that wasn't polka-dotted or zebra print," I admit.

"Right," Emily sighs. "Well, next time borrow something from me."

I want to point out that it's unlikely any of her clothes will fit me, given that Emily is half a foot taller, with twice the boobs and ass, but she probably wouldn't listen anyway.

"Will do."

"So, what are you waiting out here for?"

The nervous tingling in my stomach returns in full force, threatening to push me over the edge. I can't say what I'm thinking: that it took me an hour to work up the courage to show at all. Not to mention my perfect GPA is more to due with the anxiety ruining my life than with genuine work ethic. I've seen the look people get when I tell them these things. I can't handle getting it from Emily, too. She's one of the few friends I've managed to make in college, after all.

"Uhh, stargazing?" I lie.

Thankfully, Emily takes me at my word.

Or at least, if she suspects I'm not being entirely truthful, she lets it slide.

"You can do that later. Come on, I'll walk in with you."

She links her arm with mine, and I turn my attention to the building in front of us.

Elysium Hall is a massive brick two-story that covers half a block of campus. Stark white columns line the front like bars on a cell, and ancient oaks cover the sides in deep shadows. There's even a banner announcing the gala, strung up over the main entryway. Gentle light filters out through the glass windows, illuminating the brick street we're standing on, and meticulously landscaped hydrangeas adorn the walkways like tiny pastel gemstones.

It's pretty, in a morbid, totally intimidating way.

"Careful," Emily chides, "if you trip and fall, you're taking us both down."

I draw my gaze away from the building, and focus instead on the steps leading to the door. I'm wearing simple blue flats instead of heels, but I still don't trust myself enough not to look where I'm walking. That, and with each step we take, my anxiety grows stronger. Already I can hear the telltale signs of a party: laughter, string instruments, and the unmistakable sound of clinking glasses.

Before I know it, I'm spiraling.

I shouldn't be here.

I'm not good enough to be here.

Is it too late to go back to the dorm and watch Twilight for the fifteenth time?

As if sensing my thoughts, Emily squeezes my hand reassuringly.

"Just think, we'll be socializing with some of the wealthiest people in the country tonight. Maybe we'll dig up some job opportunities!"

Leave it to Emily to put a positive spin on things.

The truth is, the idea of being around so many upper class families makes me want to puke. Even the thought of job opportunities can't cheer me up. Maybe if I were more confident it would excite me, but all I can think is...why would anyone be excited about a job?

If I had it my way, I'd spend the rest of my life binge-reading romance books.

Yes, I realize that's totally lame and depressing.

No, I don't plan to do anything about it.

Besides, I already have a job lined up. It's a secretary position at a copywriting agency for fancy dish towels. You know, the ones that say stuff like, "live, laugh, love," and "this mama drinks wine." It might not be my dream job, but it's better than nothing, and I start in two weeks.

"Ladies." A male voice pulls my gaze from the ground up to the doorway, where a bulky man in uniform stands with a clipboard.

"Oh, hello," Emily purrs, slipping into her most seductive accent. "We're here for the party."

Unfortunately for us, it doesn't seem to work on him. He smiles darkly, and I get the feeling he won't hesitate to toss us back on the street if we're not on the list.

It's the first time tonight I've thought about what this banquet means, security wise. With so many of the university's top financial donors in one place, I should be thankful to even be here. Other than a handful of students, all of the guests are going to be successful businessmen, wealthy heirs, and industry titans.

"Names, please."

Emily flashes him another perfect smile, "Emily Young and Olivia Amber. We should be listed under the honors student section."

The man doesn't respond, but his eerie smile remains plastered to his face as he checks a clipboard.

What a weirdo.

Still, my breath catches in my chest as he looks for our names.

"Please, enjoy yourselves," he says at last, moving aside to let us enter. I catch a glimpse of tattoos peeking out from under his shirtsleeve, but when he lowers his arm they disappear.

"We will," Emily says confidently. Together, the two of us step into the ballroom.

And...

"Holy shit," she whispers, coming to an abrupt stop in the doorway.

"Yeah."

Though I was expecting lavishness, the party easily exceeds all my expectations.

For one, people are dancing.

Like, ballroom dancing out of a movie, dancing.

Thanks to my expert knowledge via Barbie: Nutcracker, I'm pretty sure it's some kind of waltz. Unfortunately, my vague memories of cartoon characters aren't going to be enough to put me on a level playing field here. This dancing is perfectly precise. It's as if everyone here has practiced for nights like this. Hell, maybe they have. Either way, I don't think they'll be playing the Cha Cha Slide anytime soon.

Besides, I have far bigger problems than not knowing how to dance.

All of the women here, Emily included, are wearing fine silk gowns or tailored dresses with waterfall ruffles. Even the men are wearing crisp tuxedos, or intricate three-piece suits.

Meanwhile, my polyester sequined dress is looking more out of place by the minute.

A few curious glances in my direction confirm my worst fears: I'm underdressed.

But it's too late to back out now.

"Ahem."

Emily and I turn in tandem to the man who's just approached us.

His smile is dazzling, like he's just won the lottery. He's an inch shorter than Emily thanks to her stilettos, heavily muscled, and his ink black hair is neatly parted on the side. Two intensely smoky eyes peer back at us with something resembling awe.

Or, rather, at Emily.

"May I have this dance?"

It takes her a moment to process what he's asked her. She turns to me, a questioning look on her face.

"Go, I'll be fine," I assure her.

I hope.

A mischievous smile spreads across her face, and she gives me a quick hug before nodding to the man.

"If you insist."

I don't miss the telltale flush of red that creeps across his pale cheeks, and a part of me perks up at Emily's prospects of landing a job offer after all.

Either that, or another wealthy boyfriend.

He takes her hand in his and the two of them traipse across the room for the dance floor, leaving me alone by the door.

Well, no point in lingering in the entryway all night.

Especially not when my dress makes me stick out like a sore thumb.

With that in mind, I gather my courage and start walking. Might as well try to blend into the crowd. Luckily or not, no one tries to talk to me as I make my way through the room. I probably wouldn't make for good conversation anyway. What do the wealthy even talk about?

Last week's polo matches?

The newest yacht models?

Lobbying the government?

My foot catches on something solid and heavy, and before I know it I've crashed face-first into a brick wall.

A warm, cologne wearing brick wall.

Shit.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry," I gasp, as I step backwards.

In my hurry to avoid making a scene, I've managed to stumble straight into trouble.

A quick glance at my feet confirms the object I tripped on was in fact this man's shoe, which now bears a noticeable blue scuff mark along the side.

"I can fix that," I stutter, before I can think better of it. "Um, if we can just get some napkins, maybe it'll rub out?"

He doesn't answer.

He doesn't even move.

Slowly, I draw my gaze upwards, from his (now scuffed) dress shoes, to his perfectly tailored tuxedo. As if the situation wasn't bad enough, his white dress shirt is now sporting the unfortunate makeup-imprint of my face, front and center. And I'm pretty sure it's not going to scrub out with a few napkins.

The man sighs, and raises a clear glass of amber liquid to his lips.

His pale hands are rough and scarred, and on his pinky finger is a solid gold signet ring with the initials H.W. Something tells me he's not a professor, which means he's probably one of tonight's honored guests.

A shiver of fear runs down my spine, but I force myself to look higher, at his face, which looms a solid foot above me despite my wearing heels.

My breath catches in my chest, and all hope of reconciling the situation fades.

This isn't a man.

This is a god.

His dark hair is neatly combed in imitation of a gentleman, but it does little to downplay the threat of violence dancing in his cold blue eyes. His jaw is lined with a rust-colored beard, trimmed neatly to accentuate his features, and his nose is strong and roman-esque. He reminds me of one of the marble statues I've seen in history books. Like Marc Antony or Alexander the Great, only more... dangerous.

He lowers his glass, then fixes me with a passive glare, as if I'm not worth his time. Slowly, his icy gaze sweeps down my body, then back to my face. Though he hasn't spoken, a hint of adrenaline snakes into my veins.

I should get away from this man before it's too late.

I take a step back.

Then another.

"You should be careful," he says, voice low, "I'd hate for a pretty thing like you to get hurt."

His words send another rush of adrenaline through my body. What exactly does he mean by that? And why do I feel like it's a threat?

"Right," I say, voice shaky. "I'll just be...uh...over here if you need me."

I gesture vaguely to the chandelier, then turn and walk away as fast as my feet can carry me.

When I finally find the courage to look behind me, he's gone. Disappeared into the crowd despite his size and stature. I should be relieved. Maybe even happy. But instead, a cold, unwelcome feeling filters through me.

Fear.