"You said you had your own company. How much money do you have?"
A low chuckle slips out of me, because only she could stand in the middle of a high-end tailor’s shop, stare down a man like me, and ask the kind of question that would get most people killed. "Enough to pay for a suit," I tease, letting my smirk curl just to see if I can coax a blush from her.
She doesn’t flinch. Just narrows her eyes. "No. Seriously."
I sigh, shake my head like she’s impossible, and pull out my phone. A few swipes later, the screen glows between us, listing the totals across my accounts—several billion—spread neatly across currencies and countries. They are numbers that would make governments blink.
Her gaze flicks over the screen, cool as glass. Then she gives the smallest nod, lips twitching. "That’ll do."
"That’ll do?" I echo; a laugh breaks free, rough and disbelieving. "That’s all you’ve got to say?"
She smirks at me, and fuck, my heart constricts so tight it almost hurts. Because it’s her. The old Sophia. The one I used to watch from the shadows, the one I obsessed over while building empires in her name. The one I thought was lost forever.
She steps closer, eyes gleaming. "I assume you have men working for you."
"Several," I answer, keeping my voice low and steady, enough for her to know I’m not brushing her off, that I'm playing with her.
She nods again, decisive this time, like she’s already running numbers and possibilities in her head. "Okay then. I don’t know what kind of plan you have, but if you wantthemto take you seriously, you’ll need your men dressed like this, too." She gestures toward the racks of suits surrounding us, crisp and merciless. "Get them here."
I stare at her for a long beat. My fierce, broken, brilliant Sophia, already seeing angles I hadn’t. I love watching her step into my world, right where she fucking belongs.
A couple of hours later, Sophia walks the line like a queen, inspecting her soldiers. To anyone else, her nod of approval would have been enough. But I know her, and I catch the faint note in her voice when she says,"These will do."She isn’t fully convinced. Not yet.
"When we get back home, I'll make appointments with stores at Maison Étoile, to see that your men and women," she raises an eyebrow at me, and I nod, confirming that I have other women in my employ besides Lexy, "get outfitted properly."
"This feels so different," Kyle says, staring at himself in the mirror, and I agree, clothes make or break people. Sophia steps to his side and tugs at the shoulders of his jacket, and I finally see what she sees: the cut’s just a fraction too wide, making him look more like a kid playing dress-up than the soldier he is. I wouldn’t have noticed. Not until she pointed it out. That’s the difference between her and me. I see weapons. She sees details. Both can kill.
Kyle flushes at her touch, but she only smooths the fabric with a small frown before stepping back. Kyle’s one of the newer guys, sent my way through Gray. Good kid. Still green, but loyal.
When she crouches down like she’s about to tug on Leo's pant leg, I step forward and intercept. "Nope." I cut in, and my hand catches hers before she gets the chance.
She tilts her head at me, her grin sharp and knowing, as she winks. "Fine. Then take me to lunch and tell me your plan."
I almost laugh, because only Sophia can pull rank on me in front of my men and make it feel like I’m not the one obeying orders. But the truth is, I don’t mind. Not with her. Never with her.
I turn back to my crew. "You heard her. You," I snap my fingers at two, "stay close." When I look back at her, the fire in her eyes nearly drops me to my knees.
Ten minutes later, we reach the restaurant, while the rest of my men gettemporarysuits, as Sophia calls them. The real deal will have to wait until we get to Maison Étoile, probably taking turns, because I don’t think even Maison Étoile can outfit over a hundred men and women on a dime. Sophia tells me it'll probably take a week or so before all of them are suited up properly, with more to spare. Seeing the price tag already climbing over half a million dollars this afternoon, I wonder how much more Maison Étoile will cost me. Not that I mind. My men deserve to be elevated. When I rise in rank, so will they, and I get that they'll have to look the part. I'll be damned if I foot their clothing bills from now on, though. I'll see to it that they can afford to buy their own suits in the future. But I'll also make sure that even the smallest of my foot soldiers will receive at least one good suit. I remember how it was working for Carlos, having to wear cheap ass suits because I couldn't afford anything more expensive, but being expected to be at galas and dinners, looking sharp. I will never make anybody working for me feel cheap.
I order the guards to wait outside. They fan out, sharp in their new suits, already looking like they belong in this world of glass and marble. I’m not used to that. For years, they’ve looked like shadows, killers in leather and denim. Now? They look like the army of a king.
Inside, the air is cool, perfumed with money and arrogance. Chandeliers glitter overhead, the crystals catching every flicker of light. I’d been somewhere like this once before, years ago, when I was too young and too angry. They’d refused to seat me until I pressed cold steel to the maître d’s ribs. Even then, they made sure I knew exactly what I was—less. Nothing. Trash that didn’t belong in their world.
Not today.
Today, the maître d’ smiles at me like I’ve always belonged here. My suit fits. My shoes shine. My presence demands space. And for the first time, I realize how much clothes matter in this world, how much they change the way people look at you.
But then I notice something else. The way people glance at Sophia. Quick, cutting looks. A girl in jeans and a leather jacket surrounded by polished suits and diamonds. Their eyes slide over her like knives, judging, whispering behind their menus. It stirs something violent in me. I’m about to snap at the waiter when she catches my hand under the table and squeezes once. Then she smiles, soft and sure.
"I don’t care what they think," she says simply, keeping her voice calm in the storm of whispers. "I stopped a long time ago." She hesitates, her eyes dip for just a second. "For a while, the only thing that mattered was what… Roberto thought." His name stumbles out, heavy, and she swallows before lifting her chin. "But now, he’s gone."
Her gaze locks on mine. "Do you care?"
I shake my head immediately, leaning in until my words are just for her. "Sophia, you look beautiful no matter what you wear. Always have. Always will."
That smile that breaks over her face is bright enough to gut me. She leans back, the lightness in her expression rare but real. "Good, because I feel like a badass looking like this, and I've always wanted to wear your jacket out. Let’s eat," she says, grinning, and for a moment it feels like the entire room disappears, until it’s just us.
The plates arrive, and silver lids are lifted with a flourish, as if this were supposed to impress me. It doesn’t. What impresses me is Sophia sitting across from me, steady and sharp, her eyes catching mine as the waiter fades away. She doesn’t touch her fork yet, just tilts her head, waiting.
