Page 64 of The Mafia Assassin's Redemption
“Why?”
“We had a conversation. Let’s just say he can live, but I don’t trust him.”
Bitterness poisons my mouth as my chest tightens. “You just want to kill my whole family, don’t you?”
He ignores me. “You’ll have an escort to the church. So I need a list of times that you’re there or I’ll cut that off, too. I’vegot work to do, but tomorrow you’re going with Lucie and Declan on a shopping trip. Clothes, makeup, hair salon, the whole fucking shebang.”
Torin steps closer, his eyes cold, yet they ignite sparks deep in my core.
“You won’t be able to escape, and you’ll have no say in the clothes. Choose your own makeup and hairstyle. Within reason.”
There’s a note of dark warning there. Like he thinks I’ll come back with a green mohawk or something. Or get a face full of piercings.
“Is that all?” I ask nastily. “There’s no style book for me to consult?”
“Lucie knows what to get. You’ll be dressing the part of a good mafia wife. My mafia wife.”
Then he moves farther into the room and flicks on the lamp. My heart skitters, pulse leaping. Fuck my life, can he be any hotter?
He casts a look down at me. “You stole my shirt.”
I swallow. “You ruined my dress.”
“Your shit is ugly as fuck.”
“Forgive me that I’m not a fashion plate for men to ogle.”
“The only man ogling or touching will be me. But…” He looks at the ceiling for a long moment. “There is a chance someone saw you today. My wife would be dressed better.”
“Would she?”
He moves closer, settling over me, his face way too close to mine. I can see the tiny scar on his chin in the lamplight now that his face is smoothly shaven.
I don’t like it. Somehow the scar makes him human.
“We have parts to play, and yours is on your hands and knees, doing what I tell you to do. And one of those things is to dress better. Mafia is thename of the game, Harry.”
He retreats, and for a moment I think he’s going to leave the door open. But he comes back with a paper bag and a bottle of water. “Dinner.”
Torin turns to leave again. I grab the bag and throw it at him. He whips around and catches it.
“Your loss,” he says before locking me in.
My loss, indeed.
I’m fucking starving.
And not only for food.
The bedroom door is unlocked the next morning, and outside my room there is a glossy bag of clothes sitting on the floor. I pick it up and rifle through the contents. Dressy pants, a fitted top, and a gorgeous coat in slate gray. And there is a pair of black patent leather Mary Janes.
It takes me no time to get ready and I pull my hair back into a low ponytail.
“Style your hair, Hazel,” I grouse, using the name I go by. “Go on. You’ll look like someone I want to be seen with.”
For fuck’s sake. I really don’t want to bother with maintaining a hairstyle.
But whatever floats my master’s boat.
