25. Dominic
Chapter 25
Dominic
I rap my knuckles against Tatum's door, holding a duffel bag full of wigs, glasses, and various disguise items. The early morning sun streams through the hallway windows, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.
"Come in," she calls out.
I push the door open to find her already dressed in yesterday's clothes, perched on the edge of the bed. Her auburn hair cascades over her shoulders, and she raises an eyebrow at the bag in my hand.
"What's all this?" She stands, curiosity lighting up her green eyes.
"Your ticket to a proper wardrobe." I toss the bag onto her bed. "We're flying to Chicago. You need clothes that actually fit this situation, and a proper swimsuit."
She rifles through the bag, pulling out a blonde wig and oversized sunglasses. "I left all my cards at home. I can't?—"
"Shut up." I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. "You think we need his dirty fucking money? Get dressed. The plane is waiting."
"A private plane?" Her eyes widen as she examines a dark brown wig.
"You expected economy class?" I shake my head. "Not that one, the blonde one. Wear the jeans and t-shirt in there. And the glasses."
"You bought me jeans?"
"I had someone buy you jeans. Now hurry up." I push off the doorframe.
"Aye aye captain," she says with a mock salute. I must say, her snarky little attitude is one of the things I like most about her, upon many.
I guide Tatum to the black SUV waiting in the driveway, scanning the perimeter out of habit. The blonde wig suits her, though I prefer her natural color. She slides into the passenger seat while I take the wheel.
"First time on a private jet?" I ask, pulling onto the main road.
"Thomas always made us fly commercial, to appear more relatable to voters." She adjusts her oversized sunglasses. "Though he'd upgrade himself to first class and stick me in coach."
"What a gentleman." The engine purrs as we accelerate onto the highway.
Ten minutes later, we're climbing the steps to the jet. Inside, Tatum's eyes widen at the leather seats and polished wood finishes. She settles into one of the plush chairs while I take the one across from her.
"This is nice." She runs her hand along the armrest. "So what exactly are we shopping for? I didn't think mobsters cared about fashion."
"We care about practicality. You need clothes that'll let you move, blend in." I accept a scotch from the flight attendant. "No more designer dresses or fuck-me heels."
"Hey now, I agree with you on the designer dresses aspect, but every girl needs a couple pair of fuck me heels." She takes a sip of her own scotch, like she said didn't just make my dick twitch.
"What would you choose for your wardrobe? If you got too?"
"Jeans. Vintage T-shirts. Converse or combat boots like yours." She glances at my feet. "Something that doesn't make me feel like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life."
The engines roar to life, and we begin taxiing down the runway. Tatum grips her armrests.
"Nervous flyer?"
"No, just..." She lets out a shaky breath. "First time making my own choices in years. It's scarier than I expected."
"You're doing fine." I lean back in my seat. "Better than fine, actually. Most people would've cracked by now."
She smiles taps her chest with her tiny fist. "I refuse to crack Dominic Vance."
And that, I wholeheartedly believe.
The mall security gives me a wide berth as we enter through the main doors. Can't blame them – I stick out like a sore thumb among the morning shoppers with their Starbucks cups and shopping bags.
Tatum's on autopilot as she leads us towards some trendy store with loud music and dim lighting.
"No." I grab her elbow, steering her toward a more practical clothing shop. "This is what Tatum would pick for herself, not what your piece of shit husband would choose."
"Right, right," she says, almost like she's convincing herself. "Easier said than done to break the habit."
Three hours later, we've got a decent haul of jeans, t-shirts, sneakers and boots. You can take the woman out of the stepford, but you can't take the stepford out of the woman. I don't know how it's humanly possible to spend three hours in a mall amongst other humans and not be ready to lose your fucking mind.
I'm dodging another rich fuck who can't keep their nose out of their iphone long enough to watch where the fuck they're going when I hear her voice.
"Can we look in there?" She points to a high-end boutique. "Just for fun?"
I check my watch. We've got time. "Fine. But make it quick."
I trail behind her as she flits through the racks of evening gowns, her fingers dancing across the fabrics. The boutique attendant hovers nearby, clearly unsure what to make of my presence.
"This one." Tatum pulls out a black dress with a plunging neckline. "I just want to try it on."
I nod, settling into one of the plush chairs outside the dressing room. A few minutes later, she emerges, and I have to damn near tell myself to remember how to breathe. The dress hugs her every curve, the slit climbing dangerously high up her thick thigh. The lowcut neckline doing all it can to hold her luscious tits in place. She's transformed from some stuffy senator's wife to something dangerous, powerful. Like she just stepped out of some kind of Bond movie. She's fucking exquisite.
"Well?" She spins, the fabric swirling around her legs.
"Get it." The words come out rougher than intended. I clear my throat. "Never know when you might need to attend a mob dinner."
Her eyes light up. "Are those a real thing?"
"Oh yeah," I stand, pulling out my wallet. "And the food's better."
"You don't have to?—"
"Consider it a business expense." I hand my card to the wide-eyed attendant. "Can't have you showing up to Family events looking like a politician's prop."
"Family events?" She raises an eyebrow, smoothing down the dress.
"Figure of speech." I motion for her to change back. "Hurry up, we've got more stops to make."
She disappears into the dressing room, but not before I catch her pleased smile in the mirror. Dangerous indeed.
We head out of the boutique, I'm loaded down with bags, looking like the dutiful boyfriend, or to everyone else, more like a bodyguard probably.
"Last stop," she announces, heading toward Victoria's Secret. My jaw clenches. Fuck.
I follow her in, trying to look anywhere but at the displays of lace and silk. The sales associate approaches, and I hang back, attempting to blend into the wall despite my size.
"He's with me," Tatum calls over her shoulder, already browsing through a rack of bras. "What do you think, Dom? Black or red?"
She holds up two sets of matching underwear. The black one is all delicate lace, barely there. The red... Jesus Christ. I already know she looks good in Red.
"Get the black and white." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "I already know you look good in Red."
She swallows as she smiles.
"And get whatever else you may need."
She disappears into a fitting room with an armful of items while I stand guard outside, hands shoved in my pockets. The rustling of fabric and soft sighs from behind the curtain are pure torture.
"Can you hand me the navy set?" She sticks her arm out, and I pass her the hangers, my knuckles grazing her fingers.
"Everything fitting okay?" I manage to ask, keeping my tone professional.
"Perfect." There's a smile in her voice. "Though I might need a second opinion..."
"Don't even think about it." I adjust my stance, willing my body to behave.
Forty minutes and several hundred dollars later, we're heading back to the jet. The pink shopping bags swing from her hand, a reminder of what's inside them.
"That was fun," she says as we climb the stairs. "Though you looked ready to murder someone in there."
"Nearly did." I follow her into the cabin, tossing our bags into the storage compartment. "Next time send Connor lingerie shopping with you."
She laughs, settling into her seat. "Afraid of a little lace, Dom?"
I give her a warning look as I buckle in. "Afraid isn't the word I'd use."
The engines roar to life, drowning out whatever response she was about to make. Thank fuck for small mercies.