The Bratva Boss Hunted Me

Chapter 1

TESSA

Beatrice's moth mask is sliding down her nose when my ex takes credit for the wings.

“I told her silver would sell,” Lincoln says, leaning against our display table with a drink balanced on a stack of booking cards. “Tessa gets carried away. Somebody has to keep her commercial.”

The left wing took me six hours. I remember those hours especially well because I spent most of them promising myself I could go to bed after the next row of beads.

“Lift your chin a little,” I tell Beatrice.

She obeys, watching me through the silver mesh.

Beneath the mask, her mouth has tightened.

Twenty minutes ago she arrived clutching a coat over the costume she'd rented from us, worried about looking ridiculous.

Getting her to leave that coat at the desk felt like a small victory.

Now Lincoln has managed to make the three of us uncomfortable before his first DJ set.

I tighten the ribbon at the back of her head, smoothing it beneath her hair.

The wings rise from her shoulders on fine wire supports, their silver markings bright against charcoal silk.

With her chin lifted, she looks ready to step onto our little platform beside the bar. I want her to have that moment.

“You suggested slutty nurses,” I tell Lincoln. “Then you asked whether Peggy's cousin could get you a discount on scrubs. Please move your drink.”

Beatrice laughs, and he lifts the glass before I have to reach for it.

Around us, The Ninth Masque is filling with people who can afford to dress up seven weeks before Halloween.

Rain gleams on the coats arriving through the front doors.

The air that follows them smells of wet wool and salt water before the doors close and the warmth of the crowd takes over.

Above the coat check, the club's name glows against old brick.

Farther in, smoke-colored mirrors catch the amber bar lights, doubling the bottles and chandeliers until the room seems to offer more corners than it has.

The place must have held cargo once. Thick black iron columns run down the main room beneath a ceiling that took us an entire afternoon to decorate.

Our silver moons turn above the dance floor whenever the ventilation catches them, flashing over bare shoulders and polished masks.

Velvet booths sit beneath a narrow upstairs gallery, where dark windows overlook the crowd.

I can see one lit doorway up there, a man's broad shoulder briefly filling it before the door closes.

Downstairs, our costume samples stand on the platform beneath a sign Peggy designed. Hem & Havoc. Your October starts here.

Every rental deposit tonight buys us a little more winter. I've already imagined January rent arriving without the usual sick feeling, followed by the wildly extravagant purchase of a cutting table that doesn't wobble. I don't intend to let Lincoln take credit for that, either.

He catches my elbow as I reach for my kit.

“It was a compliment. You used to know when I was joking.”

“And you used to have access to the friends-and-family rate. We're both adjusting.” I ease my arm free and move his glass onto the bar. “The designs are mine. Peggy handles the bookings. Your name's on the DJ schedule.”

His smile stays in place, but the finger tapping his glass stops. Having an audience usually makes him charming. Tonight it seems to make him slower to leave.

Peggy arrives with our tablet tucked under one arm, her white feathered halo listing to the left. “They need you in the booth, Lincoln. Apparently the music won't play itself.”

He looks at her, then at me, before pushing away from the table. I watch until the crowd swallows his white jacket. At twenty-seven, I should probably have learned to date someone I won't subsequently encounter at work.

Peggy nudges my shoe with hers. The hem of her angel dress is already shedding glitter onto the floor.

“He put his drink on the cards, didn't he?”

“The good ones.”

She inspects the damp circle on the top card, makes a face, and slips it into her bag. Then she turns the tablet toward Beatrice to show her a photograph of the wings from behind.

Beatrice's fingers loosen around the little bag she's been squeezing. “Oh. I look lovely.”

The surprise in her voice makes me happier than Lincoln's departure.

“You do. Wait until you see how those wings move under the lights. I built them so you could dance.”

One side of her hair has slipped from its twist. I find the blue crystal comb in my kit and hold it beside her cheek, where the stones pick up the cooler light from the platform. The curved row of crystals looks almost blue-black until I turn it.

“Borrow this. It'll hold everything where we want it.”

“Are you sure? I'd hate to lose it.”

“Bring it back when you return the wings.” I slide the comb into place above her right ear. “Now go let somebody buy you an overpriced drink.”

She checks herself in the mirror behind our display, smiling properly this time, before heading toward her friends.

Peggy watches her go. “That's going on the website. Actual happiness. We should charge extra.”

I laugh as she passes me a tall glass of ginger beer with a wedge of lime. The first swallow is sharp with lime and stings the back of my throat. I've been talking over music for an hour, and the cold is wonderful.

My own costume is less elaborate than Beatrice's.

The red satin dress fits close through the waist and slides against my thighs when I walk.

I made it on myself, which involved a dangerous number of pins and Peggy eating noodles while offering advice.

A small horned mask covers my eyes, secured with ribbon.

On our booking page, this is the little red devil.

On me, after too many nights sewing other people's good times, it feels like an excuse to stop working.

Tonight I'd quite like one of my own.

Peggy takes a sip from my glass, then points toward the platform. A space has opened beside it, giving us a clear shot of the display without anybody's drink obscuring our sign.

We move fast. I leave my glass and kit behind the table while she gathers three sample capes over her arm.

From this angle, the open doorway beside the platform shows a strip of the staff corridor.

Our wheeled wardrobe racks stand outside the fitting room, silver rails catching the light.

Earlier, one wheel caught on the threshold so hard that Peggy and I nearly delivered a row of vampires facedown.

Beyond the racks, the corridor turns toward the reserve store and the rear service wing. The staff lounge is along the same passage. I've spent most of the evening going back and forth with pins between my teeth, so even in a devil dress, I still feel half at work.

On my phone screen, Peggy throws a black cape around her shoulders and spreads its lining for the camera. Red sequins brighten as she turns. She changes to green velvet, taking her time so I can get the movement, then lifts the last cape above her angel dress and makes herself laugh.

I keep filming. That laugh will sell more than the pose.

Behind her, Beatrice crosses toward the open doorway with a man in black work clothes.

He's wearing a skull mask, the molded plastic kind we buy by the carton for group rentals.

He gestures toward the service corridor.

Her wings tip sideways to clear the door, and the blue comb flashes once before she follows him beyond the racks.

Peggy swings the last cape into a full circle. I step left to keep her in frame, following the sweep until it settles around her ankles.

When I stop recording, there's nearly two minutes on the timer. Peggy comes to inspect it, pressing her cheek beside mine so we can both see.

The best turn is halfway through. I make a separate eight-second teaser, cropping tight around her and the cape while she swipes a thumb over a smudge on my cheek.

The full video stays in my camera roll. I add A little preview.

Full launch reel tomorrow and post the short version to our business account.

“Go enjoy yourself,” Peggy says, reclaiming the tablet. “I'm taking deposits until they throw us out.”

“You say that like taking people's money isn't your idea of a good time.”

“It comes a close second.” She grins at someone beyond my shoulder, then straightens her halo. “Go. Before I develop an interest in another DJ.”

I rescue my drink from behind the table and carry it toward the quieter end of the bar. My feet ache. The first two booking notifications light up my phone before I reach a stool, and I stand there grinning at the amounts until somebody steps close enough to interrupt the amber light on the screen.

The man beside me wears a bone-white skull mask.

His is shaped to the upper half of his face, with fine cracks painted into the bone and a satin tie disappearing behind his head.

It leaves his mouth uncovered. Stubble shadows his cheek, and faint lines bracket his mouth.

His formal jacket follows the breadth of his shoulders and draws in at the waist without straining when he moves.

Black silk at his throat lies smooth against a matte black shirt.

I know what clothes cost when they're made to fit one person. The jacket doesn't hide the breadth of his chest, and I'm making no effort to pretend I haven't noticed.

“You're standing on your ribbon,” he says.

His voice is deep enough that I hear him easily through the music. A slight accent rounds the words. When I glance down, the thin red tail attached to my dress is trapped beneath one heel.

“That explains the sudden improvement in my posture.”

He holds out his right hand. A square black stone sits in a heavy ring, its surface catching a small bar of light.