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“Is she ready?” I ask.
2
Grace
I’ve been dreading this all day, anxiety gnawing a hole in my stomach.
It’s nearly evening before I finally work up the courage to open the box that was on top of my dresser this morning when I woke up—likely delivered by one of the guys while I was asleep. There’s no note on it, but I’m assuming it has something to do with our meeting with Damian tonight.
Unable to put it off any longer, I peel back the cardboard and tissue paper and unfold the dress inside.
My heart stutters as I stare at the garment.
Running my hands over the dark blue fabric, I bite down on my lower lip. Nostalgia for a long-ago time washes over me. I wore outfits like this to the syndicate parties I attended with my mother and father—dressed up like the mafia princess I was.
Once, I belonged in a dress like this.
Once, I was a part of this world.
The soft fabric almost burns me, and a confusing mix of emotions churns in my stomach at the sight of it. Dropping the gorgeous dress back into the box, I close the lid and move toward the closet next to the attached bathroom in search of something different to wear. I’m meeting the head of the Novak Syndicate for the first time in years, and I know my choice of clothing will make a statement.
It still feels strange to walk freely across the room after the weeks I spent tied to the bed, one of the guys always watching me. But ever since the night Brian tried to kill me, I haven’t been tied down or restrained in any way.
Even though I’m seemingly free to wander the house, I’ve found myself stuck in this room for the past two days by my own choice. Honestly, I’m scared of myself. Of what I might let myself do, where I might let my feet wander.
“Focus, Grace. Focus.” I repeat my new mantra, blowing out a breath. “Just get through this one thing. One problem at a time.”
In the closet, I don’t find anything but the same variation of clothes that I’ve been wearing for the past week. Jeans, t-shirts, and sweaters. I hate to admit defeat, but I know rummaging through this closet isn’t going to yield anything suitable—the guys want me to wear the dress, which means I’m not going to wear anything else.
Steeling myself, I walk back across the room and pick up the box again, dumping the contents onto the bed. I strip, careful of the healing bullet wound in my side, and quickly pull the dress over my head, trying not to notice how familiar this all feels. The last dress I wore was a wedding dress, but before that, I had settled into a routine of simple, practical clothes. Clothes that matched the cozy suburban life I was trying to build for myself in Washington.
Slipping on this dress for a meeting with the head of a powerful mafia syndicate is like slipping into the past. Into a part of my life that I tried for a long time to forget.
I don’t know if whoever picked the dress out was trying to stir up old memories, but that’s exactly what they did. When I look at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes widen.
It’s like looking at a picture of myself in the past—one that’s moving and breathing and living. I look the same, but so much different.
The dress is nearly identical to one I wore to a party just before my mother’s death, but my body has changed since those days. The neckline and tapered waist now accentuate and compliment my curves, creating a perfectly sensual yet modest look. Whoever picked it out certainly has taste, and as much as I want to hate the dress and the reminder of the past, I can’t.
It’s absolutely stunning, and more than that—it makes me feel stunning.
Wanted.
Taken care of.
Smoothing my hands over the soft fabric, I freeze at the sound of the door opening softly. My gaze darts up to the mirror, and I find Zaid leaning against the jamb behind me. He does nothing to hide his reaction to my dress.
“You look stunning,” is all he says, voice low.
But his eyes say much more than that as his gaze trails down the curve of my back and calves appreciatively, moving back up to my reflection in the mirror.
“It’s a beautiful dress,” I say absently, brushing my hands down the fabric again. My palms prickle with sweat. “I feel like I’m meeting a king.”
He takes a slow step toward me. ?
??You are… in a way.”
My gaze flickers back to the green eyes reflected in the mirror, holding his gaze. There’s so much I want to ask him about what’s going to happen, but I’m afraid of sounding weak. Scared. The violence of my father’s lifestyle rarely spilled over into our home. He protected and insulated my mother and me from the darker aspects of his work. But still, one thing he instilled in me that I’ll never forget is how dangerous it can be to show weakness.
