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chapter 7

I told Ryan I had a fitting for the wedding dress alterations.

He set his pen down. "Which boutique?"

"Laurent's on 5th." I kept my face blank. "They need to take it in."

He studied me for three seconds too long. "Take the car. Driver stays with you."

I nodded.

I didn't.

I left the driver smoking by the boutique entrance and walked three blocks in heels to the restaurant Victoria chose. Glass walls, rooftop, all the city spread out below like she owned it.

She was already drinking wine. Red. She smiled when she saw me. "Alexis. You came."

I sat. Didn't take the chair she pulled out. Chose my own, back to the wall. At the Collar, you never sat where they told you to. You never gave them your back.

"Andrea couldn't make it," I said.

"Andrea ran a month ago." Victoria didn't lose the smile. "Left me with a Volkov contract and no bride. Lucky I had a spare daughter in Rome."

My hands stayed flat on the table. No rings. I'd left my sister's wedding band at home. "What do you want?"

"I sent you a gift. Did you like it?"

The gun on my thigh felt heavier. Ryan's gift. Safety on.

"Three years," I said. "You kept it for three years."

Victoria tilted her head. "I keep what's mine. The head was just a reminder."

I didn't flinch. Didn't ask whose. Didn't react. At the Collar, you learned not to give them what they wanted.

"Non ti avvicinare mai più a me." [Never come near me again.] Italian came out sharp, furious, before I could swallow it.

Victoria blinked. Then her eyes narrowed. "Italian. How... quaint. Did the Collar teach you that between clients?"

I didn't answer. She didn't get answers. Not about the cellar. Not about the language. Not about anything.

"I'm married now," I said.

"To a Volkov." She laughed. "You think he keeps you? He bought Andrea. When he finds out I gave him the used one from Rome, he'll send you back." She tilted her head. "Unless I ask for him to return you first."

I stood. "Try."

I walked out without looking back.

In the boutique bathroom, I threw up in the sink. Washed my mouth out. Fixed my lipstick. When I got back to the car, the driver crushed his cigarette and didn't ask where I'd been.

Ryan was home when I got there. He looked up from his desk. "How was the fitting?"

"Fine," I said. "They need to take it in."

He studied my face. "You're pale."

"I'm tired."

He nodded once and went back to his papers. He didn't ask again.

That night, I slept on the floor by the balcony with the gun under my pillow.

He didn't know about lunch. He didn't know about the head. He didn't know anything.

And I wasn't telling. Not yet.