Chapter 20
KATIE
The sapphire dress has enough fabric to qualify as clothing, though Artur may dispute the point when he sees the back.
Before the bedroom mirror, I turn while Cherry kneels near the hem with pins between her lips.
At my waist, the dress fits so closely that the silk seems poured there, then opens over one thigh through a slit ending well above good judgment.
Between my shoulder blades, narrow straps cross, while down my back, skin stays bare until the fabric gathers above my hips.
Four dresses lie rejected across the bed, including one too respectable and another elegant in a manner likely to please old men with inherited money. The third makes me look expensive without making me look dangerous.
I chose this one because Artur has to give a speech tonight.
Cherry removes the pins from her mouth. “Stop smiling. You’ll make me stab you.”
“You’ve been threatening to stab me since we met.”
“The first time was professional jealousy. This is tailoring.” She smooths the hem over my calf, then checks the slit again. “Walk.”
I cross the room in the high silver heels Cherry brought from Velvet Fortune; the shoes are mine this time. They fit without cutting my toes, though my old knee scar pulls when I turn too sharply.
The woman in the mirror belongs in this room.
Dark hair falls in polished waves over one bare shoulder, her mouth is painted the deep red of wine, and diamonds borrowed from the Dymov safe burn at her ears with every turn of her head.
By now, I know their value and can unclasp them without help.
Beneath the high slit, silver heels make my legs look impossibly long whenever I walk.
The wealth doesn’t erase the woman who counted grocery money; it frames her, bright and deliberate, until even I have to look twice.
Three weeks ago, Cherry tied me into borrowed rhinestones while clear heels cut my toes. Tonight the dress belongs to me, the shoes fit, and I let the slit open when I walk.
Cherry rises and studies my reflection beside me. “You’ve stopped pulling at the fabric.”
“This fabric was selected for a purpose.”
“Cruelty?”
“Motivation. His speech was dull when he rehearsed it.”
Laughing, Cherry fastens a slim bracelet around my wrist. Black fabric fits her through the hips, with crystal straps catching each lamp.
After years of practice, she knows how to make attention serve her.
I used to think confidence arrived only after fear left; mine has grown around the fear, giving it fewer places to show.
The bedroom door opens.
Artur enters while adjusting one cuff, the black tuxedo with a satin collar fitting close across his shoulders. Beneath it, the white shirt stands open at the throat. By leaving off the tie I set on the dresser, he exposes the hollow above his collarbone and a narrow path of skin below it.
His gaze reaches me and stops.
Artur’s hand remains at his cuff, and his mouth opens on a breath that never becomes language.
I turn, showing him the crossed straps. “You were saying?”
“I wasn’t.”
“You began.”
“Katie.”
“Finish the sentence.”
He approaches slowly, making every step an answer, and his eyes move from the loose waves at my shoulder to the neckline fitted over my breasts. They follow the narrow waist, pause at the bare length of thigh, then return to the open back.
Heat brushes under my skin wherever he looks, tightening my nipples beneath the silk. The reaction should embarrass me in front of Cherry, yet pleasure has become harder to disguise since Artur taught me exactly how much he enjoys causing it.
He stops behind me, and the mirror holds his broad body above mine while his fingers hover near my bare back.
“I was going to say we should leave,” he replies.
“Then you appeared in a dress that shows me the curve of your ass every time you breathe. The front has been arranged to make me wonder whether those straps will survive my hands. That slit gives me a clear view of the thigh I intend to have around my neck when we get home.”
Cherry picks up her evening bag. “Detailed enough?”
I watch my own blush spread toward the neckline. “He could’ve mentioned the color.”
Artur touches one fingertip to the lowest point of my bare spine. “Blue.”
“A critic’s eye.”
“My attention is lower.”
Cherry leaves before I can answer, her laughter following her into the hall.
Artur’s palm closes over my hip, and he draws me back against him, letting me feel the hard length beneath his trousers. His mouth brushes the side of my neck without disturbing the makeup near my shoulder.
“You did this deliberately,” he says.
“You have a difficult evening. I wanted to give you a reason to finish early.”
His thumb slips beneath the edge of the backless dress. “I can finish early here.”
“Your guests might object.”
“They already fear disappointing me.”
I turn within his arm, then fasten the neglected tie around his neck. The silk whispers across his collar while I pull the knot into place. Artur watches my mouth throughout, his hand still low on my hip.
“Behave until after the speech,” I tell him.
“You chose that dress and expect obedience?”
“I expect suffering.”
His brief smile carries enough promise to tighten my stomach. “Then we understand each other.”
Beneath the legitimate event hall, the Dymov Casino glows like a secret someone has spent a fortune teaching to smile; across the charcoal carpet, amber lamps cast warmth.
Filtered perfume barely covers the stale scent of cards while muted ventilation keeps the air cool.
In fractured pieces, mirrored liquor cabinets throw back the room, catching shoulders or hands before faces appear.
Tonight a string quartet occupies the low stage, though the tables remain built for cards rather than applause.
Security work has changed the room without making it look different.
The mirrored liquor cabinet still occupies the wall, though a second lock now guards the steel door behind its shelves.
I can still see the captain reacting before Boris spoke, one hand disappearing inside his coat while two hard presses of my fingers told Artur to watch the reflection instead of me.
Guests rise as we enter.
Artur keeps his hand at the base of my spine. The possessive touch satisfies the room, yet he doesn’t steer me toward the men waiting to greet him; I choose our path through the tables.
Faces turn as women study the dress, and men correct their attention whenever Artur looks back. I accept greetings without lowering my eyes, leaving my fingers in an older guest’s grasp when he kisses my hand too slowly until discomfort makes him release them.
“Mrs. Dymova,” he says. “The casino has improved its luck.”
“It had nowhere else to go.”
Artur’s fingers press lightly against my back, letting me feel his amusement through the touch.
I speak to a restaurant owner near the stage, then greet a councilman whose wedding ring has left a pale groove around his finger. Neither conversation deserves much of me because the mirrors deserve all of it.
They show the room in strips, with security holding the doors and servers moving in curved routes between tables under the amber light. A woman in gold keeps glancing toward Artur’s shoulders while her husband explains commercial property.
Near the south service entrance, a worker in a gray maintenance jacket stands with a closed tool case he never opens.
He watches the main exit.
As applause lifts at the end of the quartet’s first piece, every other employee looks toward the stage. The worker studies the north doors instead, then checks the service entrance behind him. Despite the cool air, sweat darkens the gray cloth between his shoulders.
My pulse begins to strike high in my throat.
I keep smiling at the councilman. “Excuse me. My husband owes me a dance before his speech.”
Artur’s eyes meet mine at once, and he offers his hand without asking why.
We cross toward the open floor, and a mirrored column gives me another angle on the south side, where the maintenance worker has shifted beside a taller man in a dark suit.
The taller man keeps his left shoulder turned away from the room.
A contractor visitor badge hangs inside his lapel with its photograph obscured by scratched plastic.
A pale scar cuts from his cheek toward his left eye.
When a server approaches from that side, he rotates his entire body to find her, exposing the damaged edge of his vision.
My heel did that.
I remember the clear shoe striking Igor’s face at Velvet Fortune. The impact drove through my ankle before blood opened along his cheek. The rage on his bloodied face promised he would come back while I crouched beside Artur, using the chair and my own body to keep the next bullet from finding him.
For one sick breath, the casino contracts around the scar.
Metal floods my tongue, and too quickly, my lungs pull air, each breath stopping above my ribs. From where he stands, Igor can see the diamonds in my ears. The maintenance worker touches his own pocket, then looks toward the stage where Artur will stand in minutes.
I can’t let my fear turn my face toward them.
Artur leads me onto the floor as the quartet begins a slower piece, and his right hand takes my waist. I set my left hand on his shoulder, then place the fingers of my other hand against his thigh.
Two hard presses.
His expression remains warm for the room while his gaze moves to the mirrored cabinet behind me.
“South service door,” I murmur. “Gray jacket watches exits. Igor is beside him with his scar toward the wall.”
Artur guides me through a turn, watching the reflection during my rotation.
“I see them,” he says.
He doesn’t ask whether I’m certain.
Inside the panic, relief catches with a painful edge. As if the dance requires it, Artur draws me close, then lifts two fingers behind my back. Near the main entrance, Boris changes position, while toward the stage, Niko moves with one hand at his cuff.