Page 65 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

I look back at the mirror. Diane reappears carrying another dress.

“This one,” she says diplomatically, “is more structured.”

Which turns out to be Bergdorf’s language for obscenely expensive. The dress is charcoal silk with sharp architectural lines and a high neckline softened by the drape at the waist.

Elegant. Controlled. Safe.

When I step out wearing it, Aleksander studies me for several long seconds.

“This feels more like something you’d choose yourself,” he says finally.

“That’s either a compliment or an insult.”

“Observation.”

I glance toward the mirror again.

He’s right. The emerald refuses to apologize for being seen. This one feels like armor.

Aleksander leans back in the chair, his gaze steady on mine. “The emerald is better.”

“Because it’s less defensive?”

“Yes.”

I don’t know what to do with the honesty of that. Diane appears beside us again, clearly sensing financial opportunity. “The emerald will be ready by six,” she says smoothly. “And the charcoal as well, if you’d like both.”

I open my mouth automatically, already calculating whether objecting would be dignity or theater.

Aleksander answers before I decide. “Both.”

Diane smiles like a woman watching commission bloom.

I should argue. I don’t. That should probably concern me more than it does.

20

SAY IT AGAIN. (TAMARA)

“Is that Khaite?”

Katya circles me slowly, assessing the emerald silk with open approval while balancing a champagne coupe in one hand.

“Aleksander picked it,” I admit. “Disturbingly, my husband seems to know more about fashion than me.”

The word still catches strangely in my chest.

Husband.

As if repetition alone might eventually make it feel less surreal.

Katarina appears beside us with a second glass. She is softer than Katya, quieter too, though there’s something watchful underneath the kindness. “Aleks has always had excellent taste.”

Katya smirks. “Especially when he’s emotionally compromised.”

I shake my head and don’t comment, taking a sip of champagne. Across the apartment, Aleksander stands near the fireplace speaking with Vasiliy and Igor, one hand loose in the pocket of his charcoal trousers.

Even from here, he feels contained. Dangerous in the way winter ice is dangerous, smooth enough that you forget what sits underneath.