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“Is that a joke?” Tristan asks, his tone still frosty, a look of irritation on his face.
“A bad one,” I admit, and sigh. “Sorry. That was stupid. I joke when I’m nervous. It’s just... it’s a thing.”
Tristan’s jaw muscles flex, his blue eyes unreadable. “It’s going up on eleven.”
“You sound like my mother,” I complain, and then wince reflexively. Fuck, I’m really on a roll this morning. “Sorry,” I repeat when Tristan’s eyes narrow. They really are a beautiful shade of blue. Like sapphires. “Seriously, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be a pain in the ass. I just...” I sigh and shake my head. So much for not putting my foot in my mouth. And if that wasn’t bad enough, I can feel myself starting to turn red. “Where’s Theo?” I ask, desperate for a change of subject.
“He went out,” Tristan replies curtly. “He’ll be in London most of the day, getting things organized.”
My stomach drops. “Is he... Will he be safe?”
Tristan’s expression doesn’t change. “Theo’s a big boy, Mrs. Emmerico. He can handle himself.”
“This ‘Mrs. Emmerico’ thing really isn’t—” I begin, but he’s already holding something out to me: a shopping bag from one of those luxury department stores in downtown London. “Uh... thanks? I think?”
“Clothes,” Tristan replies by way of explanation, crossing his arms. He’s keeping his voice even, cool and composed, doing a remarkable job of hiding his annoyance. “Or did you think we were just going to let you run around in a hospital gown all day?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” I admit as I peer into the bag, and the sight of what’s inside nearly makes me do a double-take: it’s all designer, it’s all gorgeous, and it’s all very, very, expensive. “Holy mackerel.”
“Theo said you needed new things,” Tristan says gruffly. “Shoes, work clothes, stuff like that. One of my personal assistants is going out to pick the rest up for you, but this should be enough for today, at least.”
But I’m already shaking my head. “I can’t possibly accept this.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Tristan says. “Theo says you’re staying, so you’re staying, and last time I checked, you didn’t bring your credit card with you when we got you out of the hospital.”
“Right,” I admit, grimacing. “Fair point.”
“Good.” Tristan’s hand is already on the door handle. “Get dressed and come down for breakfast. Your training starts today.”
“Training?” I ask, staring blankly at him.
“Training. Yes.” He looks unimpressed. “Or did you forget that you volunteered to lead this little syndicate of ours last night?”
“Er... right.” I swallow hard, glancing at the bag in my hands. “I... I’ll just... put some clothes on.” Tristan gives me a brusque nod, but as he turns to go, I blurt out, “Wait.”
He glances back at me. “Yes?”
“Uh...” I look at the bag, then back up at him, and say, “turn around. I have questions, and I’d rather ask them now.”
Tristan blinks, and for a moment his demeanor falters, but then his composure returns and he clears his throat, turning his back to me so I can keep talking as I change. “What sorts of questions?”
“Well, for starters, what the fuck do you mean by ‘training?’ ” I ask, stripping out of my hospital gown and beginning to rummage in the shopping bag. One by one, I lay the clothes out on the bed.
Tristan scoffs. “You think you can just lead without learning how to do it?”
“You mean there’s not a handbook for Mafiosi?” I joke in mock surprise, examining the clothes: designer jeans, a form-fitting sweater, black leather ankle boots... and a very nice, very expensive set of lace panties with a matching bra.
I flush bright red, and thank god he’s not looking at me, or I’d probably have a fucking heart attack. “This... this is all for me?”
“Assuming your appearance counts for anything, yes,” Tristan says. “You were shot, Mrs. Emmerico. It would be best if you didn’t draw any more attention to yourself.”
I sigh. “Fair point,” I concede, relaxing a little. Not really my usual style, but beggars can’t be choosers, and it is gorgeous. I start to dress, aware of the increasingly tense silence emanating from Tristan’s side of the room. “So I take it you’ll be teaching me... What, the ins and outs of being a mob boss?”
“You don’t just become a boss overnight, Mrs. Emmerico,” Tristan says. “You learn the ins and outs of running a criminal operation by getting your hands dirty.”
I press my lips together, conflicted, as I pull the sweater on over my head. “You think I’m afraid to get my hands dirty?”
“Fear has nothing to do with it,” Tristan says. “Everyone thinks they’ve got it in them until the rubber meets the road. And so far, I haven’t seen anything to indicate that you have it in you.”
