Page 45 of They All Own Me

I rapmy knuckles against Tatum's door, holding a duffel bag full of wigs, glasses, and various disguise items. The early morning sun streams through the hallway windows, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.

"Come in," she calls out.

I push the door open to find her already dressed in yesterday's clothes, perched on the edge of the bed. Her auburn hair cascades over her shoulders, and she raises an eyebrow at the bag in my hand.

"What's all this?" She stands, curiosity lighting up her green eyes.

"Your ticket to a proper wardrobe." I toss the bag onto her bed. "We're flying to Chicago. You need clothes that actually fit this situation, and a proper swimsuit."

She rifles through the bag, pulling out a blonde wig and oversized sunglasses. "I left all my cards at home. I can't?—"

"Shut up." I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. "You think we need his dirty fucking money? Get dressed. The plane is waiting."

"A private plane?" Her eyes widen as she examines a dark brown wig.

"You expected economy class?" I shake my head. "Not that one, the blonde one. Wear the jeans and t-shirt in there. And the glasses."

"You bought me jeans?"

"I had someone buy you jeans. Now hurry up." I push off the doorframe.

"Aye aye captain," she says with a mock salute. I must say, her snarky little attitude is one of the things I like most about her, upon many.

I guide Tatum to the black SUV waiting in the driveway, scanning the perimeter out of habit. The blonde wig suits her, though I prefer her natural color. She slides into the passenger seat while I take the wheel.

"First time on a private jet?" I ask, pulling onto the main road.

"Thomas always made us fly commercial, to appear more relatable to voters." She adjusts her oversized sunglasses. "Though he'd upgrade himself to first class and stick me in coach."

"What a gentleman." The engine purrs as we accelerate onto the highway.

Ten minutes later, we're climbing the steps to the jet. Inside, Tatum's eyes widen at the leather seats and polished wood finishes. She settles into one of the plush chairs while I take the one across from her.

"This is nice." She runs her hand along the armrest. "So what exactly are we shopping for? I didn't think mobsters cared about fashion."

"We care about practicality. You need clothes that'll let you move, blend in." I accept a scotch from the flight attendant. "No more designer dresses or fuck-me heels."

"Hey now, I agree with you on the designer dresses aspect, but every girl needs a couple pair of fuck me heels." She takesa sip of her own scotch, like she said didn't just make my dick twitch.

"What would you choose for your wardrobe? If you got too?"

"Jeans. Vintage T-shirts. Converse or combat boots like yours." She glances at my feet. "Something that doesn't make me feel like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life."

The engines roar to life, and we begin taxiing down the runway. Tatum grips her armrests.

"Nervous flyer?"

"No, just..." She lets out a shaky breath. "First time making my own choices in years. It's scarier than I expected."

"You're doing fine." I lean back in my seat. "Better than fine, actually. Most people would've cracked by now."

She smiles taps her chest with her tiny fist. "I refuse to crack Dominic Vance."

And that, I wholeheartedly believe.

The mall security gives me a wide berth as we enter through the main doors. Can't blame them – I stick out like a sore thumb among the morning shoppers with their Starbucks cups and shopping bags.

Tatum's on autopilot as she leads us towards some trendy store with loud music and dim lighting.

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