Like a damned battlefield.
A discreet buzz sounded from the private elevator—one short tone, the kind the building staff only used when Titus had made arrangements in advance.
Titus checked his watch. “Right on time.”
Ocean blinked. “What’s right on time?”
“Our suits for tonight,” Titus said.
Sage scoffed. “We didn’t order suits. You don’t even know our sizes.”
Titus slid a look his way. “Azrael sent them.”
Sage blinked. “Azrael knows my measurements?”
“Azrael knows everybody’s measurements,” Ocean said. “It’s unsettling.”
A few low chuckles filled the room.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.
Two Zegna tailors stepped off the elevator—impossibly polished, devastatingly stylish, the kind of men who judged a room in a single glance. One wore a silver tape measure around his neck like an accessory; the other carried a tailor’s chalk pen as if it were a scalpel. They rolled in the double garment rack, each charcoal-gray bag marked with embossed initials.
Both men bowed their heads slightly at Titus—recognition, deference, the kind of silent respect Manhattan reserved for old money and old names.
“Mr. Harrington,” the first said. “Your pieces are finished.”
Ocean’s jaw dropped. “Finished? We haven’t even been here a full day.”
Titus unzipped the first bag. “I had Azrael send your info to Zegna to keep on file. You’ll need more than one suit for this op.”
Aspen blinked. “Damn.”
The garment racks opened like a weapons cache—sleek charcoals, midnight blacks, shadow-toned detailing that whispered money rather than screamed it. Every cut was exact. Every line meant to command a room.
Ocean slid off the counter, hands pressed together, smiling at Titus. “My hero.”
Syx rolled his eyes.
Sage lifted a jacket and held it up to his frame. “This costs more than my laptop.”
“Most suits do,” Titus said with a smirk.
Syx lifted his own bag, unimpressed by the price tag but not the craftsmanship. “I’ll look like someone people owe money to.”
“Nah, you look like someone who shoots people for money,” Sage snickered.
Ocean clapped. “You nailed Syx’s true personality.”
“Shut up,” Syx groused at them both.
Aspen slipped on his jacket, pausing mid-motion. “It’s too long.” He lifted his arms; the sleeves swallowed his hands.
“That’s why they’re here,” Titus said, nodding toward the two tailors. “Your measurements were guessed for some reason.”
The tailors stepped in immediately—quiet, precise, assured. One slipped a needle through the fabric with fluid precision—swift, silent, exact. A sleeve shortened, a seam tightened, a line corrected. No machine. Just mastery.
In the end, the jacket fit Aspen’s slender frame like it had been built for him alone.
