Page 104 of Shadow Waltz
“The trick,” Leroy explained, “is in the tailoring. A good suit can hide almost anything if you know what you're doing.”
“Anything?” Dmitri asked hopefully.
“Within reason. We're not performing miracles here.”
By the time Leroy finished with their measurements, both men looked more relaxed, though for different reasons. Troy seemed satisfied with the professionalism of the process, while Dmitri appeared relieved that it was over.
“Mr. Carter,” Leroy said, checking his notes, “Antoni is ready for you now. Your... associates can wait here, or there's a café downstairs if they prefer.”
“We'll wait,” Troy said immediately.
“I'll get coffee,” Dmitri announced. “This whole experience has been emotionally exhausting.”
As they headed for the door—Troy to stand guard in the waiting area, Dmitri in search of caffeine—I heard Troy mutter something about “emotional exhaustion” and Dmitri's reply about “psychological warfare through fabric samples.”
I was still grinning when Leroy led me toward the private fitting room where Antoni Volkov waited to work his magic.
Leroy ledme up a sweeping staircase, shoes muffled by thick, luxurious carpet. The air grew heavier with the scent of cedar and something sharper, like aftershave clinging to expensive suits. I tried not to fidget, but every step made my heart beat a little faster. Leroy finally stopped before a pair of double doors painted a muted shade of navy, then pushed one open with a respectful nod.
“Mr. Volkov is waiting for you,” Leroy said quietly. “He prefers to work without interruption.”
I nodded, stepping inside. The door closed behind me with a soft click that sounded a lot like being sealed into a vault.
The room was bigger than my entire first apartment. Sunlight spilled through tall windows framed by heavy cream curtains, pooling on polished floors. A vintage chandelier hung overhead, refracting light onto walls lined with racks of fabric and half-finished suits displayed on headless mannequins. There was a sense of hush and drama—old money taste sharpened by a modern edge.
But none of it held my attention the way the man in the chair did.
Antoni Volkov sat in a leather armchair near a full-length mirror, legs crossed, radiating confidence and control. He was gorgeous in a way that almost felt engineered. Big, broad-shouldered, the kind of body you see on stage beneath stage lights, all definition and discipline, but the lines of his bespoke shirt and perfectly cut trousers did nothing to hide the strength underneath. His face looked carved from marble—high cheekbones, a square jaw, black hair swept back from awidow’s peak. He regarded me over steepled fingers, dark eyes unreadable and intent.
For a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe.
The only other person in the room stood by the far wall, perfectly still. The guard was huge—easily as broad as Troy, with arms like a rugby player and skin a deep, rich brown. His eyes were sharp, assessing, with a steadiness that suggested he’d noticed every exit before I’d even walked in. There was something quietly dangerous about him, and his features hinted at South Asian heritage.
Antoni’s gaze never left mine. When he spoke, his voice was velvet over steel. “Ash Carter. At last, I meet the man who has my entire staff on edge.” He stood and crossed the room with feline grace, towering over me. His smile was a slow, wicked thing. “You’re even better looking than I expected. Luka has excellent taste.”
I managed a smile, but my voice felt stuck somewhere in my chest. “You have me at a disadvantage. I’ve never been fitted by someone who could probably bench-press me.”
He laughed, low and warm. “Good. You’ll need that sense of humor. I’m going to be very hands-on.”
Antoni circled me, eyes flicking up and down in open appraisal, as if he was cataloguing every secret my body might try to keep. He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne—clean, dark, expensive.
“Clothes off,” he said, his accent crisp but playful. “Keep your underwear. This is a professional fitting, not a birthday present. Yet.”
My cheeks heated. Still, I obeyed, unbuttoning my shirt with hands that trembled just a little. Every movement felt magnified under Antoni’s gaze, and I could feel the security guard’s eyes on me as well, impassive but alert. I slipped off my shirt, folding it carefully before laying it on a nearby chair. Shoes next, thensocks, then my jeans, until I stood in nothing but a pair of black briefs that suddenly felt scandalously small.
Antoni stepped closer, hands hovering but not quite touching. He studied me as if I was a sculpture in progress, appreciating every line, every scar, every old bruise.
He let his fingers brush my shoulder lightly, almost clinically, though the heat in his gaze told a different story. “You take care of yourself,” he observed. “But you fight. I can see it here—” he traced a faint scar near my collarbone, “—and here.” His hand lingered just above my hip, not quite touching. “Most of my clients flinch. You don’t.”
I shrugged, trying not to shiver. “If I flinched every time someone looked at me, I’d never get anything done.”
Antoni’s mouth curled at the corner. “Good answer.” He stepped back and picked up a measuring tape from a tray of tools, his movements precise and practiced. “Stand tall. Arms out, chin up. I want to see the real you.”
He began with my chest, fingers cool and steady as he stretched the measuring tape around my ribcage, then slid it over my shoulders and down each arm. His touch was brisk and professional, but the elegant, open room—sunlight, chandeliers, racks of fine clothing—made every moment feel more exposed.
“Breathe normally,” Antoni murmured. He jotted down the numbers, never missing a beat, then knelt to measure my legs. His hands worked efficiently, wrapping the tape around my biceps, then my waist, then thighs.
When Antoni reached my thighs, his fingers brushed against bare skin, knuckles glancing higher than necessary as he double-checked the fit. I tried to focus on the ceiling, the fabric samples, anything but the sensation of being measured like a piece of art—or livestock.