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“Just making sure.”

“I got this. And if you would stop trying to control every little thing, you might actually get through tonight without giving me, and yourself, a damn headache.”

I laughed. “Aight.”

Miss Veda’s expression turned serious. “Listen to me, Caspian. I can help bring the people you need into this house, and I can keep the other guests from interfering. But what happens between you and the men responsible for your death?” She paused. “That’s your business.”

I nodded. “That’s all I need.”

Miss Veda looked at the suit again. “So you’re really going as Gomez?”

I smiled. “Yeah.”

“Lord.”

I looked down at myself. “What’s wrong with Gomez?”

“Nothing. I’m just wondering how you plan on keeping that sharp-ass suit clean with everything you got planned.”

I laughed. “Miss Veda, I've been dead for six years. You think I’m worried about a little dry cleaning?”

She shook her head. “Something is wrong with you.”

“Been hearing that my whole life.”

Miss Veda started laughing, but after a moment, her expression softened. “You sure you’re ready to face that night again?”

My smile faded as I looked toward the window.

For a moment, I didn’t answer because I hadn’t forgotten a single fuckin’ thing about that night… not one.

Six years earlier: Halloween night

I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom, adjusting the cuffs of the black pinstripe suit Lakelyn had picked out for me. I had talked shit about that Gomez and Morticia idea for damn near two weeks, then she showed me the black dress she planned on wearing and suddenly the party didn’t seem so fucking stupid anymore.

As far as costumes went, I had gotten off easy anyway. A suit, slick hair, and spending the entire night obsessed with my woman? Shit, I had been training for the role since the day I met her.

Truthfully, though, the costume was the least important part of my night.

I checked myself in the mirror one more time before reaching into the inside pocket of my jacket.

The ring box was still there.

I pulled it out anyway.

I had checked for that mothafucka at least four times since getting dressed, which was ridiculous because I wasn’t a nervous nigga.

I had walked into rooms knowing men inside wanted me dead and never felt my heartbeat change. I had put millions on the line without losing sleep, handled guns, shipments, negotiations, and mothafuckas who thought threatening me was somehow a good business decision.

Fear had never had much use for me.

But standing there preparing to ask Lakelyn Monroe to be my wife had my stomach doing some shit I refused to call butterflies.

“Nah,” I muttered at my reflection. “We ain’t doing that.”

I snapped the box closed and slid it back into my pocket.

After the party, I planned on bringing her back to the mansion and reminding her of every conversation we had ever had about her refusing to move in until I made her my wife.