"You don't. You look like a dead man somebody propped up in a suit." He tilts his head and studies me in the mirror. "And your neck's too thick for that collar. It looks like it's choking you." He's starting to get on my nerves, though I know he's just pushing my buttons on purpose. It's sort of the relationship we have.
"I think he looks fine," Timur offers from across the room, not looking up from his phone. He's already been fitted for his tux, and as Roman's best man, he is only trying to keep the peace.
"You think everyone looks great," Stepan says, waving him off. "You have no standards."
"I have excellent standards," Timur says, lifting his eyes. He scowls and then flicks a knowing glance at me before he says to Stepan, "I'm choosing not to waste them arguing with you."
Roman is at the mirror adjusting his jacket, turning from side to side, pulling at the lapels. He looks good and he knows it, which is probably why he hasn't weighed in on Stepan's complaints. Mila picked the color and Roman kowtows like a worshiper. He's whipped.
"So, Stepan," I say, holding still while the tailor puts some pins in the cuff of my sleeve, "are you bringing your future wife to this thing or is she still technically engaged to someone else?"
"I'm working on it," Stepan says, scowling. "Mind your business."
I chuckle at my jab back at him because it annoys him and pisses him off. Roman set me up with a task to keep an eye on things while he's gone and make sure they keep running. My cousin's job will be a lot harder—stopping a marriage alliance that might cripple us if we're not careful.
Timur chuckles darkly and looks up at Roman who's still admiring himself. Then he turns to Stepan and asks, "In sincerity, what's the play there?" His eyes narrow on Stepan, but I don't catch the return expression. The tailor has me face the opposite way to check the fit on my shoulders. But I hear what Stepan says.
"I said, I'm working on it. The best way to stop the alliance is to stop the wedding. I'm just formulating a plan." Then without skipping a beat, he turns it back on me like I'm his verbalpunching bag. "What about your hot date, Kaz?" Stepan asks, happy to redirect. "You bringing Zora to the wedding?"
"I am," I say, rolling my shoulder as the tailor adjusts the seam.
"Has she met Roman yet?" Stepan asks.
"She'll meet everyone at the wedding," I tell him. "That's the plan."
"Bold move," Timur says. "Introducing a woman to this family all at once. That's trial by fire. Will she survive?" Timur's question brings a round of laughter, even from Roman who walks over to where I'm standing to look at the tux I'm wearing.
"She can handle it," I tell them, refusing to let their annoying banter ruin my mood.
"Famous last words," Stepan mutters, and I'd throw something at him if the tailor didn't have so many needles sticking in every seam of this jacket.
When Roman slides his jacket off and drapes it over a chair, the banter dies a natural death. More serious than us all, we know when he's had enough and no one wants to piss him off on a day like today.
"The American lands on that Thursday," he says, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. "Kazimir, he's yours from the moment he steps off the plane."
"I've already started planning the welcome," I tell him, thankful that the tailor seems almost finished. Either I have the most unlikely body shape or we started a few sizes too large. This is taking forever.
"Good. Because this man has his name on every major card in the northeastern United States and he's coming here because I gave him my word that we'd match what he's used to. Airport pickup, training facility tour, introduction to Rostik and the roster… We have bettors staking their wagers already and we're more than two weeks out still." I can hear by the tone of his voice that he's reminding me how much he is depending on me.
"It'll run clean," I say, wanting to get him off my back. I have never failed to do my job well before. That fluke with the bad bet intel wasn't my doing. Someone was fucking with me. But my eyes are wide open now, and I'm more than capable of doing this on my own.
"This fighter's our door into the international market. If we land him, every promoter between here and London takes our calls… Miss a step and the door slams shut."
"I hear you, Ro." I lower my arms as the tailor steps back. "I'll get it right." I don't know how many times I have to tell these people they can trust me. One tiny slip that isn't even my fault and their confidence seems shaken. It's frustrating, and I need space.
I step off the platform and peel the pinned suit jacket off, handing it to the tailor, then say, "Give me a minute," and walk out into the hallway. My phone has rung several times and I've been ignoring it, so I take a moment to pull it out and see who's calling only to see it's Gregor.
"Do you know how furious I am?" the man says before I've finished saying hello. "I trusted your family for eight years, Kazimir—eight years. And you fed me garbage and cost me a fortune."
"I didn't send you that text, Gregor," I say, leaning against the wall. "I've told you this. My tech team went through my phone and there's no record of any outgoing message to you. Someone hacked me or something. I can't tell you what happened."
"Then explain this." My phone vibrates with an incoming message and I pull it away from my ear. He's sent me the screenshot—a text conversation between his number and mine. It's probably the one Roman was speaking about and since Roman brushed him off, he's coming at me now. I saw it when Ro showed me. I don't need to see it again. It's a fake somehow.
"I'm looking at it," I say, bringing the phone back to my ear.
"You need to make this right. I lost a lot of money and your family will fix this or I'll tell every bettor I know to avoid your ring." I'm sure he's already threatened this to Roman too, who probably talked him down. There really isn't any way to explain the unexplainable, but in order to keep our bettors happy, we have to go out of our way to make it right. I just don't know what that looks like yet.
"Give me time to figure this out," I say. "I'll make this right." The promise isn't empty. I do want to make it right because I know that’s good business. What that looks like, however, is another story.
