52. Bronwyn

52

brONWYN

Radimir left to make some phone calls, trying to figure out where we could ambush Konstantin. I got dressed and sat on the bed, thinking. Are we really going to do this? Gennadiy was going to be pissed. Radimir might be the boss, but Gennadiy did most of the day-to-day running of things, sort of like a Chief of Staff to a President. And he’d be rightfully mad when the President ran off with his new wife on a secret mission in the middle of a freakin’ war to try to strike a deal he knew nothing about. He might blame me for leading his brother astray. I sighed. I’ll worry about that when we get back.

If we get back. My shoulders slumped. That was the other reason this was a bad idea. Spartak’s men were hunting us and even if we made it out of Chicago alive, we’d be in a strange city with no backup.

But my crazy plan was our only hope. We had to do this. I straightened up...and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror.

We had to do this...but I couldn’t do it like this, in jeans and a t-shirt. I was going to be negotiating with one of the most powerful mafia bosses in the world. If I was a mafia wife, I had to start looking like it.

Gennadiy had handed us new phones to replace the ones we’d had to leave in Mexico. It only took me a few minutes searching on social media to find the person I wanted: the top personal stylist in the city. I sat staring at the message box for a while, trying to figure out what to type. Then I decided to just be honest. Hi. I’m Radimir Aristov’s new wife. And I need to look like it. NOW, this afternoon. Can you help me? I hit the Send button and prayed, but without much hope.

No more than ten seconds later, a reply came back. Send me your address, your measurements and a photo. I’ll be with you in an hour.

Fifty-seven minutes later, a van screeched to a stop in front of Gennadiy’s mansion. The security guards pulled their guns, thinking we were under attack. But instead of gunmen, a woman in an immaculate white trouser suit and scarlet blouse leapt out and shooed them away, completely unfazed by the weapons. “Clear the way!” she yelled in a British accent.

The guards sheepishly put their guns down and the woman banged twice on the side of the van. A sliding door opened, a ramp slid down, and two racks of clothes were wheeled down, pushed by a guy with chin-length black hair and Mediterranean-sea eyes.

“Rachel Waltham-Kutz,” she told me as she approached. “Behind me is Alfredo. You must be Mrs. Aristov?”

I nodded, awestruck.

“Good.” She strutted past me and clapped her hands twice. “ Come come! We have work to do.”

I scurried after her into the living room, which she’d apparently decided was where we were doing this. She chased away a bewildered Valentin, closed the doors and turned to me. “So. You want to look like them. The…” —she glanced around and then said, diplomatically—“ Russian women.”

I nodded, then looked down at myself hopelessly. “But I’m not…” I indicated my curves. “They’re all…”

“It’s not about being skinny, darling, or having blonde hair. It’s about projecting strength. Using the weapons you have. You need to stop thinking you’re in their territory and start making them feel they’re in yours. You married the king; they should be bowing down to you as their queen. Alfredo, number seven!”

Alfredo whipped a dress from the rack with a flourish and passed it to me. I ran off into the next room to change and... what?! How did this fit me so perfectly? It was a black, figure-hugging dress that finished just above the knee with a complicated crisscross webbing across my boobs and short, angled sleeves that somehow balanced out my hips. It was sexy, giving a little hint of cleavage, but the webbing also looked kick-ass, like something a futuristic alien queen would wear. I turned around, gawping at myself in the mirror. It was even comfortable! I ran back to Rachel. “I love it!”

“Of course you do. Alfredo, shoes!”

While I’d been away, Alfredo had brought in a huge, wheeled trunk. He opened the top and the whole thing folded outwards, becoming a three-tier display of shining, towering heels. Rachel passed me a pair of black, three-inch heels. “For normal occasions.” Then she passed me a pair of five-inch ones. “For emergencies.”

I tried the three-inch ones. My knees and ankles complained but wow, they did wonderful things to my legs, and the height boost gave me confidence.

Rachel unfolded a folding chair with a flick of her wrist. “Sit.”

I sat. Rachel opened a make-up case that probably cost a month’s rent. Then, to my surprise, Alfredo picked up scissors and a comb. He saw my startled expression and raised an eyebrow. “You thought I was only here to fetch and carry?” he asked in a melty Italian accent.

“No,” I lied, flushing.

He gave me a long-suffering sigh, then smiled to let me know he was kidding. He went to work on my hair while Rachel went to work on my make-up. She talked me through what products she was using and how she was applying them, recording the whole thing as a video on her phone so I could use it as a training aid. Even working at their expert speed, it took nearly an hour for them to finish. But when they did, and they handed me a mirror…

I sat there entranced, turning my face this way and that. I was having some sort of out-of-body experience: that wasn’t me, my eyes weren’t that big and my nose was bigger than that and my lips definitely weren’t that perfectly, softly pink and... holy shit, I wanted to kiss me. And it felt so light and natural, even though I knew I was wearing a lot.

And my hair! Alfredo had somehow tamed it, and it looked almost liquid, falling in a sleek copper waterfall down my back. The black dress made it pop and then Rachel slipped a white jacket over the top and gave me a sleek silver-and-black purse to hold and... wow. I felt invincible. Untouchable.

I suddenly understood why mafia wives dressed like this. This stuff was armor.

Rachel ran through more dresses with me, as well as skirts, blouses and tops. Everything fitted perfectly: it was like being in a store stocked only for me. I was in a slate-gray suit and white blouse when Radimir walked in behind me. “What is all this?” he asked, his accent leaving the words wonderfully rough.

I turned around and marched over to him, managing to only totter a little in my heels. “New wardrobe,” I said proudly.

“I’ve found out where we can meet our friend,” he told me in a low voice. He ran his eyes over me slowly, as if he was savoring every tiny part of me. “You look…”

“...good?” I asked hopefully.

He moved closer. “You looked good before ,” he chided. “I was going to say you look ready for battle.”

He put his hand on my back and pulled me to him, then brought his lips down on mine, teasing me open and then devouring me, probably ruining all the carefully applied lipstick but I didn’t care. As soon as he let me up for air, Rachel shooed him away. “Make sure you get some lingerie,” he told me as he backed out of the door. “Something really sexy.”

Rachel shut the door, and we turned to each other. “Um. Do you have any lingerie?” I asked, feeling my cheeks go hot.

“ Darling!” She sounded almost hurt. She nodded to Alfredo, and he wheeled in a whole rack of lingerie, from simple bras and briefs to things that weren’t much more than a collection of leather straps.

When Rachel and Alfredo left, I had six full outfits, a selection of shoes and purses, an entire make-up kit and an armful of lingerie. I also had a bill for...my stomach dropped as I saw the figure. I knew Radimir wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow but... am I ever going to get used to this?

I packed a bag with a selection of clothes and went to look for Radimir. The mansion was huge, but I finally found him in the kitchen. “I’ve booked us flights,” he told me. “If we leave now, we can?—”

We both turned, startled, as Gennadiy stalked in. He looked back and forth between us, suspicious. “What’s going on?”