Page 305 of Don’t Say Mafia

I was such an imposter right now; I was just waiting for Jagger to realize it.

“That one,” he said to the saleswoman, nodding at a black dress with thin straps and a slit up the thigh that looked like it might show my vagina. “And the red. The silk one.”

I opened my mouth to protest, and he shot me a pointed look. Right . . . I wasn’t supposed to be arguing.

The saleswoman grabbed the dresses and nodded toward another curtained area. “I have tons of clothes waiting for you. Should we try them on?”

“Okay,” I choked out, and followed her after a soft push from Jagger.

The dressing room was behind a heavy velvet curtain. The space was larger than my entire living room used to be, and there were mirrors on three walls, a plush bench, and lighting that made you look like a model instead of a dying peasant. There were racks of clothes lining one wall, each piece more stunning than the last.

I just won’t look at the tags . . .

I stood there awkwardly, staring at everything in shock.

How the fuck had I gotten here?

“Shall we start with this?” she asked, pulling a pretty blue jumpsuit from the rack.

I nodded mutely. What else was I supposed to do?

As I slipped out of my shirt and leggings, she hovered nearby with professional discretion, adjusting a hanger here, smoothing a seam there. I pulled the jumpsuit on carefully, half expecting it to reject me on principle.

It didn’t. The fabric slid over my skin like it had been waiting for me.

As I smoothed it down over my hips, she spoke casually, “How long have you known Mr. Thatcher?”

I hesitated just a fraction. “A while.” Which was technically true if you stretched the definition of a while into something unrecognizable.

She made a small humming sound, stepping closer to adjust the strap at my shoulder. “Ah.”

Her accent shifted just slightly on the word—so subtle I almost missed it. The polished, neutral cadence slipped, and something Irish-sounding curled underneath it.

“You must be very . . . brave,” she said.

I frowned at my reflection. “‘Brave’?”

She met my eyes in the mirror, her tone still pleasant. “Mr. Thatcher is . . . ambitious.” The Irish lilt surfaced again on the word, soft but unmistakable.

“I’ve dressed many women who stand beside powerful men,” she continued, stepping back to assess me. “It takes a certain disposition.”

I blinked at her reflection.

“I work at the casino,” I said slowly. “I know he owns it.”

Her smile didn’t change.

“Yes,” she said.

She stepped closer again, smoothing the fabric at my waist with careful fingers. “Has he told you,” she asked lightly, that faint Irish cadence threading back in, “about all the other things he and his friends own?”

There was something in the way she said it—something that felt like it held more weight than it should have.

My pulse skipped. “‘Other things’?”

Her eyes held mine in the mirror.

“Properties,” she murmured. “Interests. Investments. So many things . . .”