Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Dalla
The water runs cold before I realize I've been standing under it for twenty minutes.
I blink, reaching for the tap with trembling fingers, and watch the last of the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain.
Not my blood.
His blood.
The man who tried to kill me—one of the men RJ put down without hesitation, without remorse, without a single flicker of doubt in those winter-gray eyes.
Three men.
Three bodies.
And RJ didn't even flinch.
I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel, catching my reflection in the fogged mirror.
I look like a ghost.
Pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, my wet hair plastered to my shoulders in limp strands.
The cream dress is gone—ruined, probably burned by now.
It was covered in dust and debris and someone else's death.
I'll never wear cream again.
My hands won't stop shaking.
I press them flat against the marble counter, willing them to be still, but my body has decided it's done listening to my brain.
Every few seconds, another tremor rolls through me.
Aftershocks from the earthquake that ripped my world apart.
Just this morning, everything was different.
Just this morning, I was someone else.
Nine o'clock sharp.
I stood outside Greer's study with my portfolio clutched against my chest like a shield, heart hammering so loud I was sure she could hear it through the heavy oak door.
The hallway was quiet.
Too quiet.
Just me and my nerves and the faint ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere nearby, counting down the seconds until my career either launched or imploded.
"Come in, Dalla."
How did she always know?
I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The room was flooded with pale morning light, illuminating walls lined with sketches from every major collection Greer had ever produced.
Decades of genius, framed and displayed.
A reminder of exactly whose approval I was seeking.
There—the structured coat from her 1998 Paris debut, the one that made her a household name. And there—the draped gown that graced the cover of Vogue in 2005.
Each piece a masterpiece. Each frame a monument to standards I wasn't sure I could meet.
She sat behind her desk, reading glasses perched on her nose, a cup of tea steaming beside her. She looked up when I entered and gestured to the chair across from her.
"Sit. Show me."
No small talk. That was Greer.
I sat and my hands trembled as I opened my portfolio, and I prayed she didn't notice.
The first sketch—the asymmetrical jacket—stared up at me like an old friend.
Or an executioner.
I wasn't sure which.
I turned the portfolio around and slid it across the desk.
The first few pieces, she studied in silence. I watched her face for any reaction—a twitch, a frown, the slight raise of an eyebrow—but she gave me nothing.
Just those sharp eyes moving over my sketches, my fabric samples, my notes on construction and silhouette.
I wanted to throw up.
She turned a page. Then another.
Her fingers traced the edge of a fabric swatch—the Japanese wool I'd sourced from a tiny mill outside Kyoto.
Still nothing. No reaction. Just that infuriating, inscrutable silence.
My leg bounced beneath the desk. I forced it to stop.
"This one," she said finally, tapping a sketch of a structured jacket with asymmetrical closures. "Walk me through it."
So I did.
I talked about the inspiration—armor, protection, the idea of clothing as a shield that doesn't sacrifice beauty for strength. I talked about the fabric I'd sourced, the way it would move, the hardware I'd designed specifically for the closures.
I talked about the women I imagined wearing it—powerful women, fierce women, women who refused to choose between being soft and being strong.
Greer listened without interrupting.
Her expression remained neutral, but I noticed her fingers had stilled on the fabric swatch.
She was paying attention. Really paying attention.
When I finished, she was quiet for a long moment.
The clock ticked.
My heart pounded.
I was fairly certain I was about to pass out.
Then she removed her reading glasses and set them on the desk.
"This is the work you were afraid to show me," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Why?"
I swallowed hard. "Because it's mine. Really mine. Not an interpretation of your vision or what I think buyers want. It's... me. Every piece is something I needed to create. Something I couldn't not make."
Greer leaned back in her chair, studying me the way she'd studied my sketches.
I felt like a butterfly pinned under glass—examined, catalogued, judged.
"Dalla," she said, "in my almost forty years of this industry, I've learned one thing above all else: the work that terrifies you is the work that matters.
The pieces you're afraid to show are the pieces that change everything.
" She paused. "Fear is a compass. It points directly at what matters most."
My breath caught.
"This collection is exceptional. Bold, uncompromising, utterly original." A faint smile curved her lips—the first smile I'd seen from her all morning. "I believe I used those exact words to describe what I look for in my designers. You've exceeded every expectation I had for you."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything but stare at her like an idiot.
"We'll discuss production timelines after the showing today. I want this collection in our fall lineup. Full production, not limited release." She picked up her reading glasses again, sliding them back on. "Now go get ready. You have work to present."
I floated out of that room.
I don't remember my feet touching the ground.
All I could think was: I did it. She loved it. Everything is about to change.
I called Rev from the hallway, barely able to get the words out.
She screamed so loud Doran probably heard it from the other side of the estate.
We laughed. We cried.
We made plans to celebrate that night with champagne and too much dessert.
Five hours later, everything did change.
Just not the way I'd imagined.
A knock on the bathroom door jerks me back to the present.
"Dalla?" Rev's voice, tight with worry. "Can I come in?"
I take a shaky breath. "Yeah."
The door opens and my sister slips inside, closing it behind her.
She's changed out of the dress she wore to the showing—she's in jeans now, an oversized sweater, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun.
She looks younger like this. Softer.
More like the girl I grew up with and less like the mafia wife she's become.
"Hey," she says quietly.
"Hey."
She crosses to me and pulls me into a hug without another word.
I sag against her, pressing my face into her shoulder, and for a moment I'm not twenty-six years old.
I'm seven, and I just fell off my bike, and my sister is there to pick me up and tell me it's going to be okay.
"I've got you," she murmurs. "I've got you."
I don't cry.
I want to—the pressure is building behind my eyes like a storm—but the tears won't come.
It's like my body used up all its responses on shaking and now there's nothing left.
"Three men," I whisper against her shoulder. "He killed three men."
Rev pulls back just enough to look at my face. "RJ?"
I nod.
"They were trying to kill you, Dal. He did what he had to do."
"I know. I know that." I pull away, wrapping my arms around myself. "But the way he did it... he didn't even hesitate. Didn't blink. It was like swatting flies to him. Like they weren't even people."
Rev's expression shifts.
Something knowing in her eyes. Something sad.
"That's what they do," she says softly. "The men in this world. They become weapons so we don't have to."
"Is that what Doran is? A weapon?"
She doesn't flinch at the question. "When he needs to be. When it's about protecting me, protecting our family—yes. He becomes something else entirely." She reaches out, tucking a wet strand of hair behind my ear. "And now RJ is that for you."
"He's not for me. He was just doing his job."
"Was he? I saw the way he was watching you at the showing, and in his eyes there was more than duty."
The question hangs in the air between us.
I think about the safe room.
The way his hands trembled when he touched my face—tiny tremors that matched my own.
The way his voice went rough when he said we're going to finish this conversation.
The way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"Get dressed," Rev says, mercifully changing the subject. "Doran's called a meeting. They want to discuss next steps."
"Next steps for what?"
"For keeping you alive."
Before I know it we’ve gotten ready and we’re heading to the meeting location.
The meeting is held in Aleksandr's study—a room I've never been inside before.
It's exactly what you'd expect from a man like him.
Dark wood paneling, heavy furniture, walls lined with books that look like they've actually been read.
A massive desk dominates one end of the room, but no one's sitting behind it.
Instead, everyone has gathered around a seating area near the fireplace, arranged in a loose circle that manages to feel both casual and deeply intimidating.
Greer and Aleksandr occupy a leather sofa, their postures mirror images of controlled fury.
Doran stands by the fireplace, one arm braced on the mantel, his jaw tight enough to crack stone.
Rev sits in an armchair nearby, and she reaches for my hand when I take the seat beside her.
And RJ.
He's standing near the door, dressed in fresh black clothes, his wounded shoulder hidden beneath his jacket.
His face is blank.
His eyes are fixed on some middle distance that doesn't include me.
He hasn't looked at me once since I entered the room.
"Dalla." Greer's voice pulls my attention back. "How are you feeling?"
"Alive," I say. "Thanks to RJ."
Something flickers in her expression.
Pride, maybe. Or calculation.
With Greer, it's always hard to tell.