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I laughed. “For dancers?”

“For performers, dancers, whoever. Clothes made by someone who understands how fabric moves under lights. Where it rubs. What needs to stretch. What must stay in place when a client gets too close.”

“I don’t have any formal training.”

“You know construction, movement, and the customer.” Amy shrugged. “Formal training would teach you vocabulary. It wouldn’t teach you what eleven hours beneath stage lights feels like.”

The thought took hold before I could think better of it.

I could design a small collection for Nocturne. Costumes that didn’t split at the seams, dig beneath the arms, or force women to choose between looking good and being able to defend themselves. Pieces that belonged to the dancers rather than the men watching them.

“How much would something like that cost?” I asked.

“To start?” Amy glanced toward the garment. “Less than most people waste producing one bad sample.”

“I’m not taking Morozov money.”

“They didn’t offer you money.” Her voice remained gentle, but there was firmness beneath it. “I offered you a business opportunity. Nocturne needs costumes. You understand how the floor works. I understand production and presentation. We would negotiate a contract.”

“A real one?”

“With percentages, deadlines, and enough clauses to make Aleksei regret introducing me to attorneys.”

Sloane sat on the edge of the bed. “Please let me attend that negotiation.”

“No,” Amy and Kit said together.

A smile pulled at my mouth.

For the first time, I could picture a future at Nocturne that didn’t depend on how long I could keep men looking at my body. I could run the floor. Design the costumes. Build something that was mine for the first time in my life.

Raffaele’s money had always arrived before anyone asked what I wanted. Nocturne paid me for what men saw. Amy had taken one look at the costume I modified and saw a future. I could earn it. I could build something for myself.

“I’ll think about it,” I finally replied, sliding my eyes to Amy and offering her a smile.

Amy returned it. “Good.”

Then they took me out shopping. The outing itself was not a makeover, though Sloane insisted on calling it tactical shopping because apparently adding the word tactical made anything respectable to Russian men. Aleksei had arranged for a boutique on Newbury Street to close to the public for two hours. Three security vehicles traveled with us. Two went ahead, one followed, and four men were already inside the building when we arrived.

It was a good day. Riley asked what fabrics I hated. Amy asked whether I preferred trousers or skirts. Sloane held up two formal dresses and accepted my answer when I rejected both. Kit checked every handbag for space to carry a phone, a small first-aid kit, and whatever else she believed a woman required to survive an afternoon in Boston, likely including a selection of weapons.

I chose a fitted black suit, two pairs of trousers, soft sweaters, boots I could run in, and a deep green silk dress that drew out the gold in my eyes. Amy added an incredibly soft, warm cream coat to the pile after I tried it on and admitted I liked it.

After the two hours were up, we went to the Morozovs’ favorite armorer. The woman who fitted me had silver hair, powerful forearms, and the unimpressed expression of someone who had seen senators buck-ass naked.

She handed me a thin black vest.

“That’s body armor?” I asked incredulously.

“It will stop a handgun round. It will not make being shot pleasant, though. It also doesn’t turn you into a superhero.”

The vest fit beneath the black blazer without ruining the fit. It hugged my ribs more tightly than I liked, but not enough to limit movement. I raised my arms, twisted, crouched, and made sure I could reach the knife hidden inside my boot.

The armorer watched me test it. “You’ve worn concealed equipment before?”

“No. I’ve worn costumes designed by men who thought breathing was optional,” I smirked.

She nodded as though this explained everything. Then, a movement in the mirror behind her caught my attention. The armorer’s fitting room had three angled panels, meant to show every side of the clothing a person tried on. They also showed the narrow office beyond the door, a portion of the stairs, and the window overlooking the street. A man in a navy coat stood across from the locksmith. He appeared to be looking at his phone.