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Before I can say anything or question where he’s going, he strides out of the room. A few moments later, he walks back through the door with a black garment bag slung over his shoulder. He has a large box in one hand, and he sets it down on the end of the bed before pulling something from his pocket and placing it on the vanity. He drapes the garment bag over the chair, then turns to find me watching him.
He shrugs, looking almost bashful. “I was hoping you’d want to come. So I got you a dress just in case.”
I blink, a little stunned. I sort of assumed that his decision to come up here and invite me to the celebration tonight was a spur-of-the-moment decision, but it obviously wasn’t. And even though he left the decision up to me, he’s made it beyond obvious that he truly does want me there.
“Thank you, Hale,” I say. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He smiles. “I wanted to. I think it’ll look amazing on you. Take your time getting ready. We’ll be downstairs.”
There’s something easy about his expression as he moves toward the bed again, like he’s finally letting go a little bit. We’re still no closer to finding the mole, but I can tell that having this deal go through is one less weight on his back, one less problem nagging at him.
“Don’t think you’re not one of us now, Grace,” he murmurs. “Because you are.”
His fingers capture my chin, and he presses a soft kiss to my lips before leaving me behind in the room, shutting the door behind him.
As soon as he’s gone, I carefully set the bag on the bed and unzip it, revealing a short black dress. It’s somewhere between elegant and sexy, and the feel of the fabric alone tells me it’s insanely expensive.
I tug at my clothes, but stop, glancing up at the door and half expecting one of the men to barge in and demand to search me in case I’m hiding something.
My heart does a little flutter inside my chest, half fear and half arousal. So much has changed since the day I stripped for Lucas to show him I wasn’t hiding anything—and to distract him from the phone I had hidden in the bathroom.
But it’s all changed so fast that it’s hard for my heart and mind to catch up. Hard for me to trust that the way things are now will last, that the men won’t go back to distrusting me and tying me up any second.
Things are different now, but that doesn’t mean I can be any less careful.
When no one bursts through the door, I slip out of my jeans, sweater, and bra and pull the dress over my head. The soft, slightly stretchy fabric slides down my body, fitting me like a second skin. The dress is off the shoulder on one side, highlighting my collarbones and long neck, and a slit running up the thigh exposes just a tease of skin when I take a step.
The pair of black Louis Vuitton heels match the dress perfectly, adding a few inches to my height when I slip them on. I shouldn’t be surprised the outfit is so well put together. All of these men know how to dress, and in the mafia, appearances matter.
The bruises and scrapes from my fight with Brian have all disappeared, and even the gunshot wound in my side has healed nicely. The evidence of the battles I’ve fought are nothing more than tiny scars as I examine myself in the mirror. My ensemble makes me feel sophisticated and sexy, like a woman who demands the attention of the room.
An almost giddy feeling fills me as I sit down at the vanity, applying a quick touch of makeup, darkening my eyes a little to match the dress and the scene we’re about to walk into. I’m not sure why I suddenly feel so excited to be included, but there’s something about getting ready like this that reminds me of the old days.
I apply a bold red lipstick and add the simple diamond earrings Hale left on the vanity, finishing the look. When I stand up to give myself one last look in the mirror, my eyes widen a little as I take in my reflection, surprised by what I see.
I look… happy.
There’s a glow on my cheeks that isn’t from makeup, and my hazel eyes are shining. The bruises on my neck have faded completely, and the dress flatters my figure. I look confident and elegant.
I feel like myself.
But what does that say about who I am?
I glance away from the mirror quickly, as if not looking at my reflection will make the question go away. Luckily, there’s a gentle rap on the door before Ciro presses it open, and I don’t have to linger in those thoughts long.
He looks at me, eyebrows lifting as he not-so-subtly gives me a once-over, from the top of my head to my feet. He swallows as his gaze snaps back up to my eyes, his fingers twitching at his side.
“Ready?” he asks gruffly.
The tone of his voice almost hurts—there’s anger in it, although it’s not directed at me. It’s all directed inward. I can see him holding himself back, still afraid of what lives inside him and what he could do to me.
I hate it.
I know I can’t fix it or battle his demons for him, but I still wish he didn’t feel like he was going to hurt me all the time.
Walking toward him slowly, I offer him a small smile. His eyes crinkle a little at the corners, his lips twitching as if he wants to return the smile but doesn’t quite know how. Or doesn’t think he should.
Refusing to let that crush me, I tentatively slip my arm through his, hoping the small gesture doesn’t do more harm than good.
