Page 7 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
"Wear the crimson dress," he says without looking back. "The one with the slit." With that, he’s gone, his footsteps fading into the muted hush of carpeted floors.
I set the ledger aside and cross the room to my closet.
My hand skims past the usual dresses, the tailored navy, the black silk, the soft greys that belong to boardrooms and polite negotiations.
I am not reaching for those.
Instead, I pull out the crimson dress tucked against the far side, which I have not worn since the last major deal we closed six months ago.
It is sleek, cut close to the body, modest enough to be respectable but with a slit that slides high enough up the thigh to catch attention if someone is looking.
And he will be looking.
I drape it carefully over the chair by the window, smoothing the fabric flat with my palms.
Then I lay the matching heels beside it.
Tomorrow, I will sit across from Dante Salvatore at whatever table he chooses.
I will hand him the necessary documents, recite the necessary figures, smile the necessary smile.
And while I do, I will watch him watch me.
Tonight, though, I stay in the quiet, the scent of rain still threading through the open window, and let the thought of the future settle within me.
2
DANTE
Velvet curtains part with the ease of muscle memory, their edges brushing over my shoulders as I step inside.
It’s warm in here, not with smoke or rot, but with money and sex and all the terrible things that live between them.
A woman’s laugh, high and indulgent, from somewhere behind the beaded curtain to my left, rolls over me.
The foyer glows in old-world red and gold, every surface polished to a quiet gleam, from the brass fixtures above to the mahogany floor beneath my shoes.
I like places that don't pretend to be anything they're not.
This one never did.
La Rosa Bianca is Nuova Speranza’s most discreet, most expensive little palace of sin, where men forget the weight of their names, and women remind them how it feels to be touched like gods.
My coat slides from my shoulders, caught by Marla before I even have to lift a finger.
She’s older, painted to perfection, and loyal to the bone.
She works here, has for years, and knows better than most how to navigate this place without losing her dignity.
While not in charge, no one lasts long here without earning her tolerance.
She smiles at me in that way she always does, like she’s both amused and resigned, as she signals for a whiskey.
"Your usual?"
"I want someone new tonight," I say, brushing a hand over the front of my jacket as I glance around the parlor. "Something different."
Her eyes narrow a fraction. "Difficult different, or dangerous different?"
