Kirill
I stand on the platform like a convict awaiting sentencing, boxed in on three sides by mirrors that reflect and multiply my discomfort at every angle.
So far, I’m on tuxedo number four.
Each one is black and features wool spun from Italian sheep with softer lives than every man I’ve killed. The tall, thin tailor, Giorgio—Jordan greeted him as “G” and they kissed each other’s cheeks—circles, using pins as punctuation, his lips pursed around the silver points. His white blond hair slicks to a juncture at the base of his skull, and slim fingers make quick work of threads and hemlines.
His hazel gaze cuts across my body, dissecting me with the same precision I’d use to select a target.
I hate this.
The choke of the collar. The stiff wool binding the hinge of my shoulders. I might as well be wearing a straitjacket.
Jordan eyes me in the mirror, assessing me with ruthless attention. I get the impression she’s weighing me for resale or allocating value to a piece of faulty weaponry.
Far from the crystal-wielding podcaster, this Jordan is clever, observant, and sharp.
An investigator’s daughter who does what’s necessary.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the way the heat of her gaze burns into my upper back and bleeds down my spine. I’d love to shove her up against the mirrors and force her to watch herself orgasm from a thousand angles.
Butfuck, I hate this suit. I yank at the collar and earn a glare from Giorgio.
Oak Brook, Giorgio’s business, hides behind a bland storefront with no sign, no windows, and a discreet brassGabove the black wooden door.
Jordan worked her own kind of system to get us in, attaching the Hearst name to her request like a touchpoint or a passport. The receptionist recognized it immediately and ushered us inside.
The place features sleek dark wooden furniture, well-dressed employees, and not a single price tag. This sort of establishment assumes you know better than to ask.
No decor either. Just rolls of fabric, mirrors, and stacks of designs. The sales floor fits only one customer at a time. A skylight overhead welcomes in natural light for when you need to check an outfit against the sun.
Since the party is at night and inside only, I’m on the pedestal under the indoor lighting.
Yes, G asked.
“They’re all the same.” I roll my shoulders to loosen the grip of the jacket. The movement only strains the fabric more, pinning me in. I can’t reach for a weapon without splitting the seams. The thought irritates me. In the field, I’d never get caught dead like this.
Actually, I mightdieif I’m caught wearing this.
Giorgio, his face hidden behind my back, huffs and readjusts the fit across my shoulders.
Sorry to ruin your work there, G.
Jordan’s reflection observes with a tilted head, her expression unreadable. She steps up close enough to break through the wool and soap with her own scent. I detect a trace of expensive perfume, a more clinical kind of fragrance than the one she’s been wearing until now.
“No, they’re not. This one says ‘old money.’ The first one said ‘I rent my tuxedos.’” She’s surveying the lines with a sniper’s care, brushing the fabric with her gaze. “And my mother will know the difference. Everyone will.”
The tailor lurks, pretending he doesn’t hear, but his eyes never leave us. His fingertips twitch.
Jordan continues to examine me in the mirror. “You’re not used to donning masks.”
Side by side, we don’t even look like we belong on the same planet. She’s relaxed, her limbs loose, her blouse and jeans effortless.
Meanwhile, I’m a study in tension and rigidity.
She taps my cheek with her finger. “Not real masks. Not ones that cover your body and force you to move in new ways.”
I grimace. A mask that covers your body? That sounds like my version of hell, but she’s the voice of experience, so I swallow my protest.
