Page 103 of Shadow Waltz

“All of the above,” Dmitri admitted.

“Could you perhaps remove them for accurate measurements?”

Dmitri began the slow process of disarming himself, placing an impressive array of weaponry on a nearby table. Two guns, four knives, what looked like tactical brass knuckles, and something I couldn't immediately identify.

“Jesus, Dmitri,” I said, staring at the arsenal. “Were you expecting to invade a small country today?”

“I was expecting to protect someone who has a talent for attracting trouble,” Dmitri replied without heat. “Better prepared than dead.”

Troy, meanwhile, had somehow managed to get measured while fully armed, his weapons apparently positioned with enough precision that they didn't interfere with the tailoring process.

“How did you—” I gestured at Troy, then at Dmitri's pile of equipment.

“Practice,” Troy said simply. “Also, better holsters.”

“Show-off,” Dmitri muttered, but there was grudging respect in his voice.

Leroy moved between them with professional efficiency, making notes about measurements while occasionally pausing to admire the quality of their tactical equipment. Apparently, he'd dressed enough dangerous men to develop an appreciation for well-crafted weapons.

“Excellent blade work on that Benchmade,” he commented, nodding toward one of Dmitri's knives. “Custom grip?”

“Had it modified in Prague,” Dmitri replied, warming slightly to the topic. “Better balance for throwing.”

“You throw knives at fancy parties?” I asked.

“Only when people get too handsy with you,” Dmitri said matter-of-factly.

Troy paused in his examination of fabric samples. “Has that actually happened?”

“Not yet, but I remain optimistic.”

I was beginning to understand why Luka had assigned me two bodyguards instead of one. Troy brought military and tactical expertise, while Dmitri brought creative violence and the kind of cheerful bloodthirst that discouraged second attempts.

“What about color preferences?” Leroy asked, holding up swatches of fabric. “Mr. Markovic specified formal wear, but left the details to your discretion.”

Troy immediately gravitated toward charcoal gray—classic, understated, professional. Dmitri, surprising no one, pointed at the blackest fabric available.

“I want to look like death in a nice suit,” he said with complete sincerity.

“Death doesn't usually wear Armani,” I pointed out.

“Death with good taste, then.”

Leroy made notes with the air of someone who'd heard stranger requests. “And for the shirts? White is traditional, but there are other options...”

“White for Troy,” I decided. “It'll make him look like a gentleman assassin. Something darker for Dmitri—maybe deep blue. It'll bring out his eyes while maintaining the murder aesthetic he's going for.”

“I don't have an aesthetic,” Dmitri protested. “I have a profession.”

“Your profession has an aesthetic,” Troy observed. “Controlled violence with attention to detail.”

“See? Troy gets it,” I said. “You're not just muscle, Dmitri. You're artisanal muscle.”

“I don't know what that means, but it sounds expensive,” Dmitri replied.

“Everything about us is expensive,” I said, settling back to watch Leroy work. “We represent Luka. Cheap isn't an option.”

The measuring continued with more grumbles about appropriate footwear and the eternal question of whether tactical equipment would show under formal wear.