Page 23 of Ruthless Scar
“My equipment is fine.”
“Your equipment is slowing you down.” He’s already moving toward the door. “We’re getting you clothes. And better hardware. Now.”
I stare at his back. “You want to take me shopping.”
He stops. Doesn’t turn around. “I want you functioning. That requires proper tools and more than one set of clothes.”
“This is your shirt.”
The words hang in the air. I watch his shoulders lock. The line of his spine going rigid.
“I know.”
He walks out. Expecting me to follow.
I should argue. Should insist on staying, on using every second of the time I have left. But my back aches from the chair. The screens have gone blurry. And he’s right about the hardware. My analysis would run three times faster with better processing power.
I follow.
The SUV is waiting in the front drive. Two guards in the front seats. Old. Gray-haired. The kind who’ve seen enough violence to be bored by it. He picked them on purpose.
We drive in silence. The city slides past the tinted windows, and I press my forehead against the glass. Four days inside that house. Four days of data and four days of Lorenzo sitting three feet away.
The SUV stops outside a storefront on Magazine Street. Marguerite’s. Crystal chandeliers visible through the window. Silk on mannequins. A place where a single dress costs more than three months of my old rent.
“No.” I don’t move from the car. “Absolutely not.”
Lorenzo is already out, holding my door open. “Move.”
“I’ll find a Target. A thrift store. Anywhere else.”
“You’re going in there. Now.”
I climb out because I don’t have a choice, but my skin prickles. I’m wearing his shirt and borrowed sweatpants. I look like someone who wandered in to ask for directions.
The woman who greets us is silver-haired, impeccable. She takes one look at me and her expression doesn’t flicker. Not with judgment. With recognition. Then her gaze moves to Lorenzo.
“Mr. Santoro.” She inclines her head. “I dressed your brother’s wife not long ago. It’s good to see the family again.”
She knows who he is. A place like this survives on discretion and powerful clients.
“She’s starting from scratch,” Lorenzo says. “We don’t have much time.”
I grab what I need with efficient desperation. Dark colors. Practical cuts. Things that won’t show coffee stains or make me feel like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life.
He stands by the door the entire time, arms crossed, watching the street. He’d rather be anywhere else.
“A few things for evening,” Marguerite says. “Dinners with the family. Events that may arise.”
“Evening wear is pointless.”
“Add whatever’s appropriate.” Lorenzo’s voice cuts across the store. “Have everything delivered.”
“He watches you,” Marguerite says, quiet enough that only I hear. “The way the Don watched his wife, before he’d admit what she was to him.”
My hands still on the blouse I’m holding.
“Another Santoro,” she murmurs, mouth curving. “Another woman who doesn’t know what she is yet.”
