Page 102 of Shadow Waltz

“Any specific requirements for Troy and Dmitri?” I asked, already mentally cataloguing what I knew about their builds and preferences.

“Make them look dangerous and elegant. Like weapons disguised as gentlemen.” Luka's smile turned predatory. “I want everyone at that gala to understand that even my security detail operates on a different level than their hired muscle.”

“And what about you? Won't you need something new as well?”

“I have more suits than I know what to do with,” Luka replied. “But you... you deserve something that's never been worn by anyone else. Something made specifically for you.”

The dismissal was clear, but this time it felt different. Not like being sent away, but like being trusted with important business. I stood, pocketing the phone, and caught the way all three men watched me with expressions that suggested this afternoon was about more than just clothes.

“Try not to bankrupt me,” Luka called as I reached the door, but there was warmth in his voice that suggested he wouldn't mind if I did.

Walking toward the elevator with a phone in my pocket and a mission that felt almost like freedom, I realized my twenty-sixth birthday was turning out to be full of surprises.

And despite my lingering uncertainty about what tonight held, I found myself looking forward to whatever came next.

After all, Luka's gifts always came with interesting complications.

Antoni Volkov'satelier occupied the top floor of a discreet building in the Garment District, the kind of place that didn't advertise because it didn't need to. Money knew where to find quality, and quality knew better than to cheapen itself with signs or storefronts.

The assistant who greeted us—a rail-thin man named Leroy with measuring tape draped around his neck like jewelry—took one look at Troy and Dmitri flanking me and immediately understood the assignment.

“Gentlemen,” Leroy said with practiced diplomacy, “if you'd follow me to the fitting area, we can begin with your measurements while Mr. Carter waits for Antoni.”

Troy moved with his usual silent efficiency, but I caught the way his eyes catalogued every exit, every potential weapon, every angle of approach. Even getting fitted for a tuxedo, he was thinking tactically.

Dmitri, on the other hand, looked like he was walking to his own execution.

“I still don't understand why this is necessary,” he muttered, shooting me a look that suggested this was somehow my fault. “A suit is a suit. You put it on, it covers your body, what else matters?”

“Everything else matters,” Troy replied with the patience of someone who'd had this conversation before. “Cut, fabric, tailoring, proportion—details that separate professionals from amateurs.”

“You sound like you actually know what you're talking about,” I observed, settling into a leather chair that probably cost more than most cars.

“I know enough.” Troy allowed Leroy to begin measuring his chest with the stoic acceptance of someone accustomed to being poked and prodded. “My father was a tailor before he was a soldier. Some lessons stick.”

This was news to me. In all the months Troy had been my shadow, he'd never mentioned family or background beyond the military service that had brought him to Luka's attention.

“A tailor?” Dmitri snorted. “That explains the obsession with proper collar height.”

“There's nothing obsessive about maintaining professional standards,” Troy said mildly, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes that suggested Dmitri was touching a nerve.

Leroy moved to Dmitri next, measuring tape in hand. “Arms up, please.”

Dmitri complied with the enthusiasm of someone submitting to dental surgery. “This is ridiculous. I'm paid to break bones, not look pretty at fancy parties.”

“You're paid to protect Ash,” Troy corrected. “Which means blending in wherever he needs to go, including fancy parties where broken bones are handled through lawyers instead of fists.”

“Lawyers are more expensive than fists,” I added helpfully.

“See? Ash understands economics,” Troy said, and I swear I heard amusement in his voice.

Leroy wrapped the measuring tape around Dmitri's waist, frowning slightly at the results. “Sir, are you carrying any weapons currently?”

“Define 'currently,'” Dmitri replied.

“Define 'weapons,'” I added, earning a sharp look from both bodyguards.

Leroy sighed with the patience of someone accustomed to difficult clients. “Anything that might affect the fit of the jacket or trousers. Shoulder holsters, ankle holsters, tactical equipment...”