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Although she’s limp with pleasure, she lifts her weakened arms to wrap around me. But I stand up, breaking away. In control. Gripping one of her wrists in my free hand, I pin it back onto the table above her head. As she watches, I lift my other hand between us, her panties still clenched in my fist. I press them to my nose and take a deep inhale. So fucking sweet.

Brioni’s eyes go wide. She opens her lips like she’s about to say something, but I kiss her hard. I give her tongue one final stroke with mine, then I’m standing up, backing away.

I turn on my heel and leave the dining room, strolling casually despite my cock chafing with need for her. I keep Brioni’s panties tight in my fist as I walk away. Mine.

Chapter 22

Brioni

“Are you sure you want it this short?” I ask.

Cora’s standing tall on the shop’s tailoring platform, evaluating herself in the full-length trifold mirror. She tilts her angular chin down at me.

“Yes.” She keeps her spine ramrod straight. “I’m sure.”

“There’s no judgment from me,” I reassure her. “It’s just… will Brady let you out of the house like this?”

As a thank-you for her Beretta lessons, I’m altering a cocktail dress for Cora. It’s another bright red number, this one a Louise Kennedy sheath that started out at a modest tea length. In addition to me tailoring the bodice to better hug her curves, Cora also wants it hemmed mid-thigh.

I’m happy to do it, of course. She was so helpful with me improving my aim that I’ll gladly hem whatever length of dress she wants. But I’ve seen the way Brady looks at men who ogle his wife, ready to murder them with his bare hands.

“I’m out of the house like this right now,” Cora says, as if it’s no big deal. But right now we’re in the back corner of the shop, tucked away in my work area. Not out in full view of strangers.

I try not to be obvious about shaking my head to myself. There’s something about the possessiveness of mafia men that’s… intense. Like an aggressive, snarling wolf, it’s something you don’t want to bait. Or at least I don’t, but Cora’s a very different person than me.

I fold up the hem of her dress by another half-inch, inserting each pin down, through, up, out. Down, through, up, out. Repeat. As I work my way around the platform, I realize I’m humming to myself. Antoine always has cheerful pop music playing over the speakers, and I’m feeling especially upbeat today.

Liam picked out the perfect table for me, one he knew I’d love. He even assembled it himself. The boss-to-be of one of the most powerful outfits in Chicago did something as humble as building a table for me.

What he did afterward was far from humble. No man has ever lavished attention on my body like that. Not for my benefit, anyway. The way Harrison used my body made me feel exactly that—used.

Liam is different in every way. He seemed so fascinated by me, and by the pleasure he could bring me. I feel myself blushing with the memory of it as I finish pinning Cora’s dress.

Down, through, up, out. The repetitive motion of each pin lulls me. Paired with the softly playing sunshine music and brightly colored carpets, it’s why this shop is my happy place.

“You find this peaceful, don’t you?” Cora asks.

“It’s soothing,” I say. “It’s the perfect outlet for me.”

With the final pin in place, I announce that she’s all done for now, then lift my hand to help her down from the platform. Cora’s a little shorter than average height, which means she’s significantly shorter than me. But her bearing is tall in a confident way, and she can be imposing even when she’s looking up at me.

“Good,” she says firmly. “You’ll need a healthy outlet for this life.”

As she heads for the dressing room, I feel a chill settle around my shoulders. This life. I stare at the blank dress form beside the trifold mirror. It’s where I’ve been keeping Cora’s cocktail dress, so there’s nothing on it at the moment. And though I’ve seen forms without dresses a thousand times before, right now, its emptiness is ghostlike.

It’s still waiting for its purpose.

Cora emerges from the dressing room wearing the business-casual outfit she arrived in. She’s careful with the dress full of pins as she hands it to me, delicate and gentle in a way she usually isn’t.

“What brings you peace?” I ask, returning the dress to its form. As I smooth down the fabric, I breathe a sigh of relief to see the mannequin’s ghostliness disappear.

“I’m not sure you want me to answer that,” Cora says when I turn to face her. She’s got one hand on her hip, her head cocked at me, her full lips bunched up in thought.

I swallow hard. No, perhaps I don’t want to know what brings peace to a tough mafia woman like Cora.

“I don’t seek peace,” she says at last. “Not in the way you do. I seek release.”

It sounds suggestive the way she says it, and I feel my eyebrows go up. She barks out a laugh.