AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“After we get this suit dilemma figured out,” Gauge interjects. “What kind of suits did Tony wear when he worked for Bianchi? He’s a big fucker and all his shit looked good on him.”
The tailor who was hiding in the corner when the brawl nearly happened creeps out toward us. “Are you referring to Antonio Moretti?”
I raise an eyebrow at the middle-aged tailor. “That be him. Why?”
The tailor clears his throat. “I was Mister Moretti’s tailor. I know all his measurements by heart and what suits worked best for his body type. I can go and grab you the one I have in mind if you’d like. I can tailor it to fit your frame better than any of these pre-fitted designer suits. In fact, it will work best for your entire party, judging by your massive frames.”
Thank fuck.
I go to my cut hanging on the chair and pull out theGQpicture I ripped out of the magazine. “I want this. My woman saw it and said it was ‘hot.’ Sales-boy still hiding in the dressing room claimed he could do better, but failed. Can you give me this?”
The tailor looks at the picture and nods. “I can.”
I rub my hands together. “Let’s get started.”
The tailor disappears and returns with a suit nearly identical in color to the gray in the picture. “This is a Topman Muscle Fit Suit. It is tailored to a muscular physique to define the shoulders, chest, biceps, and thighs. The material is engineered to stretch as you flex your muscles. The entire ensemble is a fraction of the cost of the Tom Ford, at only seven hundred.”
Now I’m really pissed. I was crammed into suit after ill-fitting suit, and all it got me was a headache and a four-thousand dollar bill. “Why the fuck was this not brought out first?”
The tailor smiles. “We work on commission. Logan, your sales associate, was trying to rake in the profit.”
Of course, the little shit was stringing me along.
“I’m all for pleasing the customer—keeps them coming back,” the tailor adds.
Taking the suit, I march into the dressing room, kicking Logan out, and praying this is the last suit I try on.
After changing, I step out in front of the floor-length mirrors and appraise myself. The suit fits good—likerealfucking good. The fabric stretches around all my muscles but doesn’t feel like it’s cutting off my circulation. It’s breathable and surprisingly comfortable.
The tailor smiles, knowing he did well. “We can get the vest, tie, and pocket square in whatever color you’d like to match your wedding colors. The suit looks very handsome on you, sir. How does it feel?”
“Like a fucking glove,” I say with relief.
“Do you want to try on a couple of other options or do you feel this meets your expectations? Are you content with the fit and the shape? We could try this suit in charcoal or black if you want,” the tailor drones on.
Before I can respond, Punk practically whines. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, will you say yes to the dress already, Atlas?!”
I glare at my brother and his reference to the TLC reality show. We had watched a shit-ton of it when Josephine was recovering after the ‘incident.’ Normally, I would tell Punk off, but I’m too relieved at having finally found something. “This is the one.”
Pleased, the tailor gets to work on taking the rest of our measurements.
