Page 27 of Santa Daddy
I shut up and listened.
“The boss is tense today,” one of the assistants muttered in English while sorting lipsticks by shade. “More than usual.”
Tense. Great. Just what you want in a man who runs executions between tree rows.
“Did you hear about the charity event?” another asked, switching to English with a London-tilt accent. “He donated again. Children’s hospital this time.”
I blinked.
Children’s hospital?
“He funds that scholarship program too,” a third chimed in, dusting something glittery near my collarbones. “My nephew got one. Full ride. First in our family to go to university.”
My attention sharpened in spite of myself.
Scholarships. Hospitals. This was not on the Mafia Boss Bingo card.
“And the factory last year,” the makeup artist said, dabbing concealer under my eyes like she owned my face. “My sister worked there. They were closing right before Christmas. Boss bought it. Kept everyone on.”
This has to be PR bullshit. He probably has talking points stapled under their tongues.
Except they didn’t sound scripted. They sounded… grateful. Soft around the edges in a way people faking didn’t bother to be.
Maybe they’re just incredibly well-paid liars.
Maybe there are pieces of him I haven’t seen yet.
Maybe that’s even worse.
“Enough talking.” Svetlana reappeared with a long garment bag, snapping it open with a flourish. “Time for dress.”
The dress inside made my lungs forget their job.
Black silk poured from the hanger like liquid sin. Cut to cling to every curve, neckline plunging to somewhere dangerous, hem just this side of indecent.
This wasn’t a dress.
This was a weapon.
“I can’t wear that,” I said automatically.
“You can.” Svetlana steered me toward the bathroom with surprising strength. “And you will. Mr. Zverev was very specific.”
Specific.
Requirements. Like I was a piece of equipment being prepped for deployment, not a human being who’d accidentally wandered into the wrong movie.
The bathroom mirror confirmed my worst fears.
The dress fit like it had been tailored on my skin. The silk hugged my hips, nipped in my waist, cupped my breasts like it had been waiting just for them. It was the kind of thing I used to see in magazines and screenshot for fantasies that did not include murder charges.
When did my life turn into a knockoff of a dark romance novel?
When I stepped back out, they all made approving noises in Russian that sounded suspiciously like the noises people made around luxury cars.
Then came the hair.
Fingers in my dark strands, scissors snipping some ends, curling iron hissing. They turned my usual messy ponytail into loose waves that fell around my shoulders like I’d woken up that way instead of being engineered within an inch of my life.
