Page 132 of Forged

Neomi tilts her head back to look between us, something shifting in her expression.

“Come with me,” she says quietly.

Her hand slips into mine, and then into Lars’s, linking us together as she starts toward the bedroom.

Lars glances at me once, something knowing passing between us, before he follows her.

I take one step after them—then stop.

“Go ahead,” I say, my voice steady. “I’m right behind you.”

Neomi studies me for a second, then she nods, tugging Lars with her as they walk to my bedroom.

I pull my phone from my pocket, staring at the screen longer than I should.

There’s only one thing left to do.

My thumb moves before I can second-guess it.

Me:I’m compromised. I’m leaving the mission.

I stare at the message, at the weight of it sitting there in plain text. Then I hit send.

And just like that, there’s no going back.

I exhale slowly, power down my phone and leave it on the island before I turn toward the bedroom.

Toward whatever this choice is going to cost me.

If anyone had toldme six months ago that I would spend a Wednesday afternoon shopping in Chicago with Violette Marchetti, the matriarch of a mafia syndicate, and basically my mother-in-law, I would have laughed in their face.

But here I am, standing beside her in the middle of an expensive boutique while she debates the merits of two nearly identical black coats, as if the decision might determine the fate of Western civilization.

“That one is nice, it fits you perfectly,” I tell her.

She narrows her eyes at the mirror.

“The lapel might be too odd.”

“You’ve been looking at it for fifteen minutes. Maybe you’re just being picky. You look incredible.”

Violette tilts her head.

“I know I look incredible,” she replies calmly. “That’s not the issue.”

I laugh before leaning against the display table behind me.

“You’re impossible,” I say, shaking my head.

“So I’ve been told.”

She turns back toward the mirror and smooths her hands down the front of the coat again. After studying me for a moment, she turns back toward the dressing room with a smile. She pulls the curtain shut, and I stand waiting again.

“How are things with Gabriel?” she calls from the dressing room.

I smile to myself. “Things are really good.”

She opens the curtain and steps out with one jacket draped over her arm. Of course, it isn’t the one she debated for fifteen minutes. The attendant takes her selection, and we make our way to the counter.