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Sofia had never seen so many beautiful clothes in one place in her entire life.
She stood in the doorway of the closet—if ‘closet’ was really the right term for a room which was larger than her entire living space. Katya breezed past her with the casual air of a shopgirl who knows everything about her inventory, and just so happens to own the whole department store. She ran appraising fingers along a row of silk scarves, each of which probably cost more than Sofia’s monthly rent. “Pick whatever you’d like to wear. The white one on the far wall—you’d look good in that.”
It was a lightweight wool suit, cut fashionably with wide, sharp lapels and even sharper shoulder pads. The hip-hugging pencil skirt looked like it would be about knee-length on her, though it was probably hemmed at a length intended to expose quite a bit of thigh on Katya’s longer legs. She touched the pristine white fabric, heard her mother’s voice in her head as she examined the fine, precise stitchwork. The real deal, not some bargain-bin rayon knockoff designed to look halfway decent only if the light is low. “I’m not sure your clothes will fit me very well,” she said, already gently freeing the jacket from its hanger despite herself.
“That’s why God made seamstresses, darling,” Katya said. “I’ve already sent for Annamaria, she’ll be here soon. Try it on!”
Sofia wondered idly whether altering dresses for rich women paid any better than sewing fake designer blouses for middle class tourists. Something to keep in mind, maybe, in case the market value of secrets ever dropped one day. Then she slid her bare arm into the first silk-lined sleeve, and—well.
She had been trained to recognize quality work on sight—but the <feel of a well-made garment, that was something that couldn’t be taught. She closed her eyes as the weight of the jacket settled on her shoulders, the crisp edges of the sleeves falling just past her knuckles. No stray threads, no itchy tags, no edges left raw, no corners cut—every detail carefully arranged, every seam intentionally placed. Her mother’s voice, again: fashionable clothing is a pleasure to see, but fine clothing is a pleasure to wear.
“Just as I thought,” Katya said, closer behind her than Sofia expected. “When I wear white, I look like an icicle. It’s so much nicer with your lovely dark hair.” Her hand traced a line along the collar and settled at Sofia’s shoulder, red nails like drops of blood against the white cloth in the mirror. The sharp-sweet smell of her perfume, sandalwood and roses. Sofia let herself want, for just a moment, imagined those strong, slender hands pushing the cool fabric back down her arms again.
Then she reminded herself that she was here for business, not pleasure. “Tell me a bit about the people we’re having lunch with,” she said, taking the jacket off brusquely and laying it on a nearby chair. Katya narrowed her cat-like eyes, somewhere between suspicion and amusement, but took the prompt and began describing the cast of wives-of-somebodies they’d be meeting that afternoon.
When Andrey hired her to get close to Katya Goncharova, she wasn’t sure what to expect. Men in power are predictable—they get their power by being exactly who they are underneath. Women in power, they get there by being whatever men want them to be. What’s underneath could be anybody’s guess.
“Don’t put yourself in danger,” Andrey had warned her, firmly. “I don’t want him to know you’re there. Don’t try to figure out what she knows, just tell me if you think she could be a weak point.” He shrugged, looking tired, a little sad. “She might know nothing.”
So here she was, in the inner sanctum of the wife of the most dangerous man in the city, looking for a weak point. But Sofia already suspected that Katya was neither an innocent bystander, nor the easy crack in the wall Andrey was hoping for.
She did end up going with the white suit—Katya chose one with a similar silhouette in crimson for herself, and Sofia had the distinct sense that she was being dressed up, carefully selected to compliment her hostess like a handbag or a pair of shoes.
“Final touch,” Katya said before they left. She plucked a tube of dark red lipstick from her vanity, spread it across her lips with an expert hand, and offered the same tube to Sofia. “Your turn.”
Sofia obeyed, the waxy makeup still warm from Katya’s lips.
They ate lunch in a hotel overlooking the ocean. Sofia played the part of the charming, vapid companion, listened to everything, and carefully matched Katya’s wine consumption glass for glass. Katya’s friends mostly ignored her, leaving her free to observe.
After lunch, Sofia turned back for the car, but Katya pulled at her wrist and said, “Let’s take a walk along the cliffs.” Her face was flushed from the wine, her eyes playful. She gestured to her driver, who nodded and began to follow them at a distance—too far to hear them speak over the crashing waves.
“So,” Katya said when they were alone on the sidewalk, “what did you think about my friends?”
“They’re so glamorous,” Sofia gushed, allowing her words to slur just a little bit. “Their husbands must be very important.”
“They certainly are,” Katya said distantly. “Did you notice anything else?”
Sofia giggled. “What do you mean?”
“I see you, you know,” she said. “I see you watching. I know you’re gathering information—don’t worry, I don’t mind if you do,” she said lightly, when Sofia’s mouth opened in protest. “You’re not going to learn anything about me I don’t want you to know. But…since you’re here, I am curious if those watchful eyes noticed anything interesting about our lunch companions today.”
Sofia gulped, every planned response drying up in her mouth.
“Of course,” Katya continued, “if you’re not up for sharing, I could tell my husband you’ve been sniffing around. He’ll probably want to know who you’re working for, and I don’t expect it would be a pleasant conversation.” She smiled. “Me, I don’t care who hired you. Whatever they’re paying you, I can triple it.”
She stopped walking. Katya stopped a few paces ahead and turned back, still smiling that Mona-Lisa smile, completely unreadable.
Sofia thought about refusing. She thought about Andrey—of all the bastards who’d paid her for her services over the years, he was one of the only ones she considered a friend. She felt a pang of loyalty, her own worst quality. Loyalty gets you killed. If she let her loyalty win, she’d probably be thrown over the guardrail and into the crashing waves below, and Andrey would never even know that she died for him.
She wasn’t ready to die for anybody other than herself.
Sofia took a deep breath. She met Katya’s ice-blue gaze, and tried not to let her voice waver. “Signora Giovani—she told that story about catching her housekeeper stealing from her jewelry box? Only, she seemed nervous, and she kept repeating certain details. Maybe she’s framing her housekeeper as a cover-up for something else?”
Katya’s smile spread into a grin, and she offered Sofia the crook of her well-clad arm. “Clever girl,” she said. “What else?”
She thought, that day on the cliffs, that she was selling her soul to the devil. She didn’t know yet that she was merely trading one loyalty for another.