Married to the Mobster's mistake

er days. She adjusted her sunglasses the only shield against the madness of New York in July and gazed up at the building before her. "This does not resemble a wedding venue." It didn't even seem

er first encounter with being underestimated while wearing heels. So she squared her shoulders and strode towards the doors. Then they swung open. And out stepped Trouble himself. Tall and impeccably dressed, he paused at the doorway with an amber drink in one hand and a folder in the other. His black suit fit like sin; his hair was slightly tousled as though he'd just run his fingers through it out of frustration-or boredom-and a tattoo peeked just beyond his shirt collar. He raised an eyebrow at her. "You're not Tony." "Sharp observation," Lana replied coolly. "I'm looking for Rosa D'Amato. This is 271 Broome, correct?" He placed the glass down on a side table without sparing it a glance. "It is." "But this isn't the venue?" "Nope." Lana sighed slowly. "Fantastic. She sent me the wrong address again." Trouble smirked. "You're here for a wedding?" "I'm a planner. Fixer. Last-minute miracle worker. And right now, I'm about to be late delivering these to a bride with rage issues and an extensive collection of sharp-heeled shoes." He looked entertained. "Sounds delightful." "Oh, she's simply charming." Lana paused briefly. "Look, sorry for crashing your... whatever this is-intimidating business lunch? Secret society brunch? Mafia board meeting?" His smirk widened. "What do you think it is?" "Honestly? It feels like the start of a terrible Netflix thriller or an excellent rom-com; I haven't decided yet." He chuckled-a low, surprised sound. "You're not wrong; it depends on who's directing." "I hope it's not Quentin Tarantino," she muttered while glancing at the folder in his hand. "You have some sass," he remarked. "And guts too; most people would've turned around by now." "Most people haven't had to calm down a fl