Anna flashes me a grin. "Thank heavens for that. I was beginning to think you were committed to your sobriety or something."
"No, just pacing myself."
A different assistant, an older woman with graying hair, appears with a tray a moment later with a bottle of champagne on it. She makes quite a production of uncorking it, presumably to prove it hasn't been tampered with, and pours two glasses.
"So how come you aren't going to this St. Pietro's thing?" I ask Anna.
"It's only the elite who score tickets to that," she tells me. "It's kind of a big deal."
"A baptism of fire, then?"
She nods. "I'm afraid so. Your first appearance as Signora Volante is going to garner a lot of attention."
I shrug. "We Russians aren't afraid to be in the spotlight."
I look up as the sales consultant appears in front of us with two gorgeous gowns.
"Try the red one," Anna suggests. "It will look incredible on you."
"No." I look instead at the midnight blue and think about how Gabriele will react to seeing me in his favorite color. "I like the blue."
"Are you sure?" Anna screws her nose up. "It's a little safe."
"Didn't you tell me this was a conservative crowd, that I shouldn't show too much skin?"
"Well, yes," she hedges, "but you don't want to go too far the other way." She leans closer so only I can hear her. "You're a mob boss's wife, Katya. What you wear reflects on him."
Like I didn't already know that. Appearances matter in our world, too much if you ask me. If a dress is too short or too tight, the woman is a slut whose husband can't control her behavior. That means he's weak. If a woman's clothing is frumpy, she's dull and that somehow suggests her husband lacks the virility to attract someone more alluring. It's bullshit but since when did the unwritten rules of the underworld ever make sense?
I decided even before I set foot in the first store that I wasn't going to play the game. I have no intention of being what everyone expects. My clothes will reflect the quiet power behind the man, a woman worth knowing in her own right. I will neither steal Gabriele's spotlight nor hide in his shadow. He may not fully understand it yet but he didn't marry a helpless little mouse from St. Petersburg.
He married the new Empress of Rome.
"I'll try the blue," I say firmly. "But hold onto the red. I'll take that one either way."
The saleswoman nods and goes to hang the dress in the changing room for me.
"Enjoy your champagne while you wait," I tell Anna.
The moment I slip the dress on I know it's the one. The soft, delicate silk feels like water trickling over my skin. It has a cowl neck and a low back. It's not unlike my wedding dress,something I hope Gabriele will notice. I step out of the changing room and the look on Anna's face confirms this is the dress.
"I stand corrected." She sets down her champagne glass and gets to her feet. "That is the one."
I twirl in front of the mirror. Gathering my hair up so I can see what it will look like in a chignon, I glance over my shoulder at my reflection. The skin on my back is pale, flawless. My neck is long and slender. It's not mere vanity to say I look stunning.
"I'll take it," I tell the saleswoman.
"And the red? Do you wish to try it on, Signora?"
"No, just ring them both up for me."
"I'll go get Santo to pay," Anna says, leaving me to change back into my own clothes.
It seems ridiculous to me but before we left the house this morning, Santo took my credit card so he could take care of any purchases. It's something to do with the boss's wife not having to deal with financial transactions. I can't see the harm in tapping my own credit card but as I'm in Rome, I shall do as the Romans do.
By the time I've got my slender black pants and red blouse on, Santo has taken care of the bill. He accepts the bag from the saleswoman and passes it to one of the other guards to carry.
"You know, in Russia, I carried my own bags."
