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I nod, eyes stinging. “We agree on that.”
“But you won’t do a damned thing about it. That’s how I know you don’t love him.” With that finality, he turns his back on me.
His words eviscerate me. Like a blade in the chest, I’m exiting the bathroom wounded, and I do my best to pretend like I’m peachy.
Not bleeding out at all. With a deep breath, I get my crap together. I have a meeting to lead and a tux fitting scheduled for every bodyguard.
Back in a private fitting room, racks of designer suits hang in wooden cubbies. Wreaths hang on the store’s windows, and outside, snow flurries catch in the breeze.
December has arrived. Classic Christmas tunes are even playing softly in the background.
Warm inside—Banks, Quinn, Donnelly, and Farrow lounge on leather furniture while Oscar is on a circular platform facing mirrors. A tailor wraps a tape measure around his bicep.
“He’s giving it that extra flex,” Donnelly jokes.
“I don’t need to give it an extra anything, Donnelly,” Oscar says, “I’m just this hot.” He flips curly pieces of his hair with a head-jerk. “Tens across the board.”
“Keep talking to the mirror, Oliveira,” Farrow calls out, “it still doesn’t like you back.”
Donnelly laughs.
Oscar smiles, “Aw, fuck you, Redford.”
Farrow’s smile stretches.
Glad that the Yale boys are having a grand ole time. Seriously, I am. I like when Omega isn’t being torn apart with in-fighting. In the past, the biggest rift came from the Oliveira brothers. Now they’re closer than ever.
The only giant sore spot is me and Thatcher.
But it won’t change our team and trust. All seven of us together have always been less dysfunctional than we are functional. We work better than just okay together. Of all the bodyguards I’ve stood beside in the past, this collection of men is the best.
I never hesitated or second-guessed going to bat for them during our days in Triple Shield. I wouldn’t hesitate or second-guess now.
Standing up front near the tailor, I tell everyone, “Once Thatcher is back, we’ll need to go over a potential new shakeup, guys.” I sober the room, but I have to return to business. We’re no closer to finding out the mole than we are discovering life on Pluto, but we still have housekeeping issues.
Baby needs a bodyguard.
Banks bobs his head, but his brows pinch at me like, you alright?
I nod to him. Still, my chest is tight.
I snap my finger to my palm, and I gesture to Farrow. “Is Maximoff excited about the Winter Festival?” It’ll be the first charity event he’s hosting as CEO of H.M.C. Philanthropies again.
“More or less,” Farrow says with the tilt of his head. He starts to smile. “It’s a big deal for him, and if we could all just try not to fuck that up, that’d be great.”
“He’s looking at you, Donnelly,” Oscar quips.
“Coulda sworn he was staring at Quinnie.”
“Me?” Quinn smiles. “I’m the least likely to instigate drama.”
“Careful what you say, bro.” Oscar says, “Drama’s gonna come bite your ass.”
Farrow lifts his brows at Quinn. “Didn’t you fight your brother at the Charity Golf Tournament?”
His face drops. “Alright, I take it back.”
Donnelly laughs, and I loosely cross my arms. Waiting on you, Thatcher. The tailor starts to measure the length of Oscar’s leg, and another consultant approaches me.
“Mr. Kitsuwon, you want to go with the Brioni collection for all of them?”
“Yes. Same color.”
“Black?”
I nod, and I hand him my credit card. “Take care of it now, discreetly.”
Tickets to the Winter Festival sold out in five-minutes, but to reinforce security, the ticket holders are wealthy patrons. Not just the average Joe off the street. Socialites. So Price Kepler informed me that his men will be arriving in tailored Tom Ford suits.
Some of my guys have been wearing the same Hugo Boss suit for over six years. Dirty, holes in the knees, and scuff marks on the legs—I can’t let SFO arrive looking less than Triple Shield.
Not with well-to-do gossipmongers there.
I have a brand to maintain.
So I sold my streetfighter bike last night. Banks was pissed, especially since it barely covers half the cost of the designer suits. I’m charging the rest.
“Of course, Mr. Kitsuwon.” The consultant leaves for the register outside the fitting room.
I breathe in and eye the suits in the wooden cubbies.
My gaze softens, remembering my dad.
He’d bring me to his personal tailor, and I’d watch him stand poised in Cesare Attolini, Oxxford, Brioni, and other high-end suit brands. He taught me about the super number of wool, peaked lapels vs notched, and the classic choice of a two-button jacket.
SFO couldn’t care less about those details. They’re just happy to have a day to unwind with the entire team. Temps guard their clients, and my mic is loose on my collar in case I’m needed.
“The lil elf knows I’d never ditch him,” Donnelly says about his client. “We’re buds—”
