Let Matthew try something. Let his Chicago professionals make their move. I’m done being afraid.
I step into the dress, pulling red silk up my body. It fits like a second skin—plunging neckline, open back, a slit up my right thigh that stops just short of indecent. I had it altered specifically for tonight, with hidden pockets sewn into the bodice and thigh.
One pocket holds a knife. The other will hold Dad’s lighter.
I’m buckling my heels—black Louboutins with five-inch stilettos that could double as weapons—when Mila returns.
“Wow.” Her eyes go wide. “You look like a princess. A scary princess.”
“The best kind.” I stand, testing the weight distribution, making sure I can move fast if necessary. The dress doesn’t restrict movement despite its elegance. Perfect.
“Can I do your hair?”
“You want to?”
“I’ve been watching YouTube tutorials with Papa.” She’s already pulling the desk chair over to the vanity. “Sit. I know exactly what to do.”
I obey again, letting her work her magic.
“Where’d you learn this?”
“Papa bought me a practice head. For learning.” She wraps a section around the barrel. “He said if I wanted to be good at something, I should practice until it’s easy.”
“Smart man.”
“The smartest.” Pride fills her voice. “He can speak five languages. And he makes the best pancakes in Brooklyn.”
“Quite the resume.”
“He’s perfect.” She moves to another section, and as surprisingly good as she was with makeup, hair is definitely something that I’ll have to fix once she’s done.
“All done.” Mila steps back, admiring her work.
“It’s perfect! Thank you, sweetheart,” I say, and considering that an eight-year-old did it, it really is.
“You’re welcome, Mom.”
I smile. “Can you go find your papa? Tell him I’ll be down in five minutes.”
She nods, already running toward the door. “Don’t forget your purse! The fancy one!”
I turn to the mirror and quickly redo parts of the hair. She didn’t do too bad of a job, but considering the type of gala we’re going to, I have a reputation to keep. After I’m done, I barely recognize myself. Dark curls cascade down my back and over one shoulder, elegant but touchable. My makeup’s nearly flawless. The red dress transforms me into someone dangerous and magnetic.
I look like I could attend a charity gala or commit murder. Maybe both.
I move to the dresser where my clutch waits. Black velvet, small enough to be elegant, large enough to hold what matters. I check the contents—phone, lipstick, compact mirror that’s actually a compact mirror and not a hidden weapon because I’m not that paranoid.
Yet.
Then I move to the nightstand. Dad’s lighter sits exactly where I left it this morning, gold catching lamplight. I pick it up, thumb working the familiar mechanism.
Click snap
Click snap
The weight grounds me. Reminds me why we’re doing this. Why I’m walking into danger wearing a dress.
For you, Dad. I’m ending them tonight. Both of them.
