I laughed. “Not that I can recall.”

She returned my smile and then shook her head. “I suppose I’m not going to get any answers, huh?” she said.

“You’ll get all the answers you need soon enough,” I responded.

We made the rest of the drive in silence, though it was calm, almost friendly.

“What is this place?” she asked when we pulled to a stop in front of a dilapidated looking building in the fashion district.

“My tailor’s office.”

“Why am I at your tailor’s office, Elias?” she said.

“Because his wife is your seamstress. Now get out,” I said.

I stepped out of the car, then held the door open for her with my hand extended.

She shook her head, slid across the seat, and got out.

I felt a charge when we touched, one that was impossible to ignore.

The feel of her hand in mine.

The sense of peace and rightness.

I brushed it off, told myself it was nothing.

But I didn’t let her hand go.

I looked around, then went inside the building.

“Barev,” I said as I walked into the building.

The entire place was lined with fabric, almost seemed overwhelming, but it was neat and well-lit and smelled of clean, fresh starch.

“Mr. Petrosyan, I told my wife of your arrival. She’s waiting upstairs,” Edgar, my tailor said.

I looked at Kayla, then gestured to the small stairwell to the left. “You heard him. She’s upstairs.”

“What does that have to do with me?” she asked.

“Kayla, I’m not here to see a seamstress,” I said.

“I still have no idea what’s going on,” she said.

I could see from the stubborn tilt of her head she was on the verge of arguing.

“You’re going upstairs,” I said.

“Elias…”

I smiled at her pouty expression and then gestured toward the stairs again.

“Go upstairs and get some clothes that are befitting my future wife,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “Not this shit again,” she muttered.

“Yes, this shit again. Now, up the stairs,” I said.

She shook her head but she walked up the stairs.

I looked away, not wanting Edgar to see me stare.

“Your tuxedo is here. Do you have time for a few adjustments?” he asked.

I nodded and followed him into the familiar dressing area.

You wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at him, but Edgar was probably richer than half of the crime families in the city because he did tailoring for almost all of them.

He was very, very good.

And more importantly, he was discreet, kept everyone’s business quiet, and his shop had become something of a neutral ground.

Or as much as anyplace could be, anyway.

“Perfect as usual,” I said after I tried on the tuxedo.