Page 186 of Fallen Rook

“Hi.”

“Is it time?”

“It is.”

“Let me grab my shoes.”

“You don’t have to come.” I shook my head. It was scandalous enough that he knew what the jackets were made of. Although I wasn’t reckless enough to actually flay people in our apartment. No. I did it in my mama’s basement and brought the leather home, like a nice, respectable psychopath, with manners and shit.

Tom swung his feet to the floor and stood. “Nonsense. It’s your passion, and I want to see you in your element.”

Forty minutes later, we entered Celine, a designer boutique catering to a very specific, rich clientele. Namely—high-profile mobsters like me.

Audrey, the leggy buyer, slipped from behind her office desk and threw her arms around me in a hug. “Enzo! Sweetheart, it’s been a minute.”

Audrey was the middle-aged wife of a very prolific mobster who had killed one of my best friends. He, too, wore a jacket I’d made for him. She stepped back, still smiling brightly. “How have you been?”

“Good. Aud, I want you to meet my, uh, boyfriend—Tom.” I gestured toward the love of my life. I was proud when he not only offered her an outstretched hand, but also a warm, genuine smile.

“Boyfriend, huh?” She took his hand but gave me the stink eye. The whisper of distress turned into full-blown anxiety. Up until now, everybody we’d met had been so supportive of us—my family, Zeke, Tom’s grams, Iris and Silas. It was easy to forget not everybody reacted this way, especially in my line of work.

“Yeah…” I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling the spot heating up. “I’m—”

“An honorable man, not some plaything,” she pointed out tersely. Oh, shit. Here we go. “And men of integrity do not have boyfriends, Enzo, they have husbands. So what do you intend to do about that?” She continued shaking Tom’s hand with surprising force, shifting her attention to him.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “I intend on asking him to marry me.”

The man did not miss a beat. My heart was in my underwear. Jesus.

“Aud. Stop it. It’s new,” I coughed out.

“So what?” She finally let go of Tom’s hand. “I only met Boris twice before we got married. We made it work.”

“It’s not that new,” Tom supplied. “I chased him for three years before he gave me a chance.”

Audrey clucked her tongue. “But was he worth the wait?”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Tom grinned.

“Then do something about it, or another man will.”

“Aud!” I broke in, before she interrogated him further.

“Fine, fine! Let me see the goods. People have been begging for them.” Audrey wiggled her fingers in delight. “We have two high-profile Bratva men vying for these, and about three Yakuza guys who are willing to outbid them.”

I slid the boxes on her sleek white desk, and she popped the first one open, gasping softly as she took in the jacket. Carefully, she fingered the fine leather, examining it from all angles, like it was a piece of art in a gallery. “Enzo, these must cost a fortune to make.”

“Fashion is my passion,” I said laconically.

“You’re such a natural. How much does it cost you to produce them?”

“Not that much. I told you, it’s from a small factory at an undisclosed location in Europe.”

This was my best-kept secret.

The flayed bodies of mobsters became jackets their friends wore. The same Bratva goons and Camorra thugs paraded about their old partners in crime without knowing it.

I’d prepared the jackets in a particular way. They were always the same camel-hued color, the same cut, and the same length. They had become a status symbol of sorts in the underworld, and many mobsters wore them.