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Delusion makes me wonder if it might have clued me in to the betrayal her brother was planning. Or maybe my mother was as blindsided by Morgan’s scheming as everyone else was. Still, she stayed by his side. She kept me under her wing, shielding me from the war her brother was waging against people that had once been our friends. And when a raid went terribly wrong, and she was caught in the crossfire, she still defended her brother’s actions.
What if that boundless kindness was misplaced all that time? If she had turned her back on her brother and stayed with the Warwicks, who were more capable of protecting us both, what would our lives be like now? Would she still be alive?
I grip my sketchbook tighter, crinkling the old pages. My mother is gone. Her loyalty to her brother killed her. The mafia life she chose to stay in killed her. I cannot make that same mistake.
Raleigh is a better friend than I deserve. That being said, she’s no artist. She reunited me with my old sketchbook, but the only drawing utensils she packed for me were a sharpie pen, which will immediately bleed through my paper, and a mechanical pencil with lead far too hard for traditional sketching. Ironically, the sharpie is perfect for my needs right now. I whisper a ‘thank you’ to the ceiling and start shaping huge letters across the paper.
I’LL DO IT. WHAT NOW??
It feels strange to hope that Thomas is in his room right now, observing me as I work. When I hold my sketchbook up to the window, I almost expect nothing to happen. But thirty seconds later, I hear the lock on my door come undone. A shiver runs through my whole body.
Thomas enters, and without preamble declares, “Tomorrow we’ll go to breakfast and get you fitted for a gown.”
I blink. “A gown? For what?”
He doesn’t smile, but there’s a spark in his hazel eyes that makes me think of car interiors and warm hands and bliss. “There’s a banquet coming up, hosted by a valuable friend. We’ll be there to make an impression on him.”
My stomach twists a little. This is the life I want to escape, this endless scheming and manipulation. Instead, I’m walking right into it, eyes open, in the hopes that I’ll walk out someday with a better future.
Having delivered his news, Thomas turns to go. But we still haven’t talked about what happened in the car between us. He still hasn’t apologized for accusing me of arson. There are so many words hanging between us, that at least two explode out of me when I see him leaving.
“Thomas, wait!”
He stops, but the stillness that comes over him is more profound. When he half turns to me, I see the predator under the man in a well-tailored suit. My body responds, like he’s pulled a string hooked inside my belly. I want to walk to him. To put myself into his arms, where I already know I fit perfectly. Will he close the door between us and the rest of the world? Will he pull my clothes off with fevered intensity, lay me out on the floor, and come inside me like he did this morning?
Or was all of that a carefully crafted scene, more successful than all the rest, to get me to move at his beck and call?
Because I’m horrified to know, deep in my bones, that it worked.
I can’t bring myself to ask him the truth, not when my body still feels so raw from his touch. Instead I say, “Breakfast? Will it really be breakfast?”
No more intimidation games, now that we’re on each other’s side?
Thomas nods, his gaze piercing. Is it my imagination, or does his gaze flick over my body? “Just breakfast,” he agrees. “And a gown, fit for a woman of the mafia.”
CHAPTER 16
Clara
Breakfast is indeed just breakfast. Thomas takes me to a gorgeous Renaissance-style cafe flooded with morning light, and I do my best to focus on bite after bite of my mushroom omelet instead of the man sipping coffee across from me. He hasn’t said anymore about what he expects from this banquet, or from me.
He hasn’t said anything about what we did in his car, and at this point, I’m afraid he never will.
At least I’m wearing my own clothes today. Well, new clothes, the ones Iris bought for me. Running around without underwear yesterday was not comfortable.
Though it did make it easier for Thomas to undress me in his car…
When we’ve finished eating, Thomas walks me to a boutique right next door. The two women standing at the desk up front greet us with elegant smiles.
“Good morning Mr. Warwick!” one of them says. “We were so honored to be chosen to fit your beautiful date for this occasion.”
I feel my cheeks flush, but Thomas doesn’t respond to the word at all. “Miss Benton, Miss Valdez, this is Clara Speare,” he says.
The sound of my last name makes both of them start, but they quickly regain their composure. I wonder what Thomas stands to gain by spreading the word that he and I are out together, and decide it’s easier if I don’t know.
Miss Benton, who seems to own the shop, leads us to one of three sitting areas sunk into the floor of the boutique. There is a pedestal in the middle surrounded by plush couches, and three floor-length mirrors are set up between them. A circular curtain rod and a velvet curtain hangs from the ceiling, providing privacy to the person on the pedestal when outfits have to be changed. It feels viscerally wrong to be led onto the pedestal by Miss Valdez, and I carefully avoid Thomas’s gaze as he sits on the sofa directly in front of me.
I expect the two tailors to bring out a selection of dresses, but Miss Benton only fetches one from an otherwise empty rack nearby. It’s a backless evening gown in the softest shade of lavender. Tiny pearl beads drape across the open back, and the silk skirt swirls around itself like running water. I can feel my mouth fall open as it’s brought toward me.
