Chapter 4
Three years later, I was pinning a senator's daughter into a silver dress when my phone announced that I had died at 9:14 that morning.
"Do not move."
I told Bianca.
"The government has killed me, and I would hate to stab you while I process it."
She froze on the fitting platform.
My death certificate filled the screen. It listed cardiac failure, a New York hospital, and a witness named Marcus Hale. The document carried the same Council seal as the execution order that had expired somewhere over the Atlantic three years ago.
No one had come for me after I landed in Milan. I had changed apartments twice, built a career under my own name, and pretended the silence meant I had won.
Apparently, my enemies preferred paperwork.
Milan had not healed me. It had given me work sharp enough to cut around the wound. I spent my first year sewing for women whose names opened embassies, my second refusing to answer any interview question containing the word Alpha, and my third building a waiting list long enough that Belladonna House stopped introducing me as its promising young designer.
I had become useful, successful, and very good at sleeping with my phone facedown.
"Is this one of your wolf jokes?"
Bianca asked.
"No. Wolf jokes usually involve territorial disputes and terrible tailoring."
I photographed the certificate and sent it to Gianna Moretti, creative director of Belladonna House and the woman who had hired me when every school in New York suddenly forgot I existed.
Her reply came immediately.
Do not leave the building.
That was not reassuring. Gianna treated emergencies the way other women treated espresso: quickly, bitterly, and several times a day.
The atelier door opened. Mrs. Bellini from the apartment below mine walked in carrying soup and an umbrella, though the Milan sky was clear.
"You forgot lunch."
Her voice stayed level.
"I did not tell you where I was."
"Your tall friend did."
Every muscle in my back tightened.
"What tall friend?"
Mrs. Bellini waved one wrinkled hand above her head.
"The handsome one who pays me to complain when you work too late. Terrible manners. Excellent bank transfers."
Three years of groceries appearing outside my door when I was sick. Three years of Gianna assigning a car whenever I worked after dark. Three years of strangers who always seemed to stand between me and the street.
I had called it luck because the other explanation had Kaelen's face.
The elevator chimed at the end of the hall.
I moved Bianca behind the fitting screen and slipped my longest cutting shears into my sleeve. Mrs. Bellini watched me with narrowed eyes, then quietly locked the service stairwell so no one could come up behind us.
That was another thing about Milan. People did not need fangs to understand danger.
Gianna stepped out first, elegant in white silk. Behind her came two men in dark coats whose scents reached me before their faces did.
Wolf.
One carried a medical case.
"Mira Valenti?"
He waited for an answer.
"According to the state of New York, she died this morning. You just missed her."
His smile did not change.
"We are here to verify the body."
The second man locked the atelier doors.
Bianca gasped. Mrs. Bellini raised her umbrella like a sword.
I stepped off the platform and placed myself between them and the men.
"You brought a medical kit to a fashion fitting."
I kept my voice steady.
"Either you have misunderstood Milan, or that case is for me."
The first man opened it.
Silver restraints. Syringes. A folded black bag.
My pendant burned against my throat.
He looked straight at it.
"The heirloom comes with us."
His voice stayed level.
"You can choose whether the rest of you does."
Behind him, Gianna met my eyes and tapped two fingers against her white cuff. It was the signal we used when an investor needed to be removed without damaging the clothes.
I smiled at the man with the body bag.
"You should know something before you touch my necklace."
His gaze dropped to my hand.
"I charge extra for alterations."