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“And?”
“I agree with everyone. You do care.”
He turned his head. “If you fell off a cliff tomorrow, I would not bat an eyelash.”
She smiled. “You’re in such denial. You like me.”
He shook his head. “You would know if I did, because a giant were-eagle would swoop down and eat your innards.”
“Yup. Uh-huh. You just keep telling yourself those lies.”
Boris’s sister lived in a house fit for a movie star, complete with her very own boat dock, fifty-foot yacht, tennis court, and Olympic-sized pool. Towering palm trees, exotic flowering gardens, and manicured lawns stretched as far as the eye could see.
“Crime must be paying well these days,” Damien said quietly to MF, whose mouth just hung open as the guard escorted them to a large gazebo in the back, where a table for fifty was set up. A bartender was busy pouring fruity cocktails from a covered bar off to the side, while servers hurried back and forth to deliver drinks to the guests.
“This is a family gathering?” MF whispered.
Damien shrugged. “Big family?”
“Greystone!” Boris called out, waving him over. Boris was a tall, rotund man with thinning black hair and a black beard. Today he wore a white suit and gold loafers. All wrong. “Everyone, diss is my good friend, Damien Greystone. He makes nice suits.”
Everyone ooh-ed and ahh-ed. Apparently, they knew who he was.
“This is my assistant, MF.” Damien presented her to Boris. “She’ll help with the measurements.”
“MF? As in motherfucker?” Boris exploded with laughter. “Remind me to keep you away from mybabushka, dah?” He laughed again.
MF smiled tightly but kept her thoughts to herself.
“Natasha! Come over here and meet di tailor.” Boris waved to a very short, plump redhead with blue eye makeup. She wore gold heels and a leopard bodysuit, size eight. This woman was easily a size twelve. Some people simply could not accept reality when it came to wearing proper-fitting clothes. Generally because in their minds, they had built up a recipe for physical perfection. Hers was apparently 1980s makeup, clown hair, and being a size eight. None of it flattered her body type or face in the least.
She walked over, eyeing Damien like the last slice of birthday cake. “Oh, di tailor,” she said, her accent just as thick as Boris’s.
He took her hand and shook it, dipping his head to show proper respect.
“Boris, youdeednot tell me howhandzome izyour friend. You will have him design me a special dress for my wedding reception, dah?”
Another dress? There was hardly enough time to do the tuxes and bridesmaids dresses he’d promised to make. “May I suggest focusing on the dresses for your wedding party first? I sense you are a woman who wants perfection, and I would not wish to rush the outfits meant for such an important occasion.”
“I want dress.” She narrowed her caky eyes.
“Oh, have you seen his Victorian reproductions?” MF asked. “They’re to die for. I won’t say who, but a very famous actress just ordered three for her wedding. All the bridesmaids are going to wear one.” MF pulled out her phone and tapped a few times. “See?”
Natasha’s eyes lit up at the tiny screen. “Oh… Those are very beautiful. I will wear one likezissfor my wedding, dah?”
Damien wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “You want to wear that as a wedding dress?”
“Dah. I will be like the famous Holyweed people.”
Okay. “Of course.”
“I want for all my three bride wenches, too,” she added.
He glanced at MF. “Do we have enough inventory for all four?”
“We can delay some of the newer orders, but yes. We can make it happen.”
“Excellent,” said Damien. Whatever made these violent, wealthy criminals happy. “Natasha, I will measure your fiancé and the best man after dinner, then? MF can take your measurements, along with the other women.”
