Chapter 4 - Sins in Silk
A woman in a crisp gray uniform entered the room carrying a folded stack of clothes and a black silk robe. She kept her eyes on the floor, set the items on the edge of the sofa, and retreated without a word.
Elena stayed on her knees, the papers scattered around her like fallen leaves. The chill had permeated her skin, turning her lips a faint shade of blue. Her mind was a chaotic storm—the smell of burning incense from the cathedral mixing in her memory with the phantom smell of smoke Luca had just described.
"Get up," Luca commanded softly.
When she didn't move, he reached down, gripped her by the upper arms, and lifted her to her feet. She was light in his grip, hollowed out by grief and horror.
"Wash yourself," he said, nodding toward a door at the back of the ground floor. "There is a bathroom through there. Clean clothes are on the couch. I won't tell you twice."
Elena looked at him, her chest heaving. "And if I try to jump out a window?"
"The glass is reinforced ballistic polymer," he replied coldly. "You'll only break your own nose. Go."
Dragging her sodden train behind her, Elena walked into the bathroom. It was cavernous, clad in dark slate with a massive walk-in shower. The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut, she sank against it and let out a broken, silent scream.
She looked at herself in the wide mirror. The woman staring back was a nightmare. Mascara ran down pale cheeks, hair pins were coming loose from her elaborate chignon, and the pristine ivory silk of her bodice was marred by dark, rusty smears of Michael's blood.
*Twelve thousand dollars,* Luca had said.
A dress paid for by dead men.
Her hands fumbled with the tiny pearl buttons running down her spine. Her fingers were shaking so violently she couldn't undo them. Panic flared hot in her throat. She pulled at the lace, tearing the delicate fabric at the neckline in a desperate frenzy to rid herself of it.
"Damn it," she sobbed, ripping the seams until the zipper gave way with a sharp tear.
The dress pooled at her feet like a discarded corpse. Elena stepped out of it, kicking it into the corner of the room. She stood before the mirror in her lace undergarments, shivering uncontrollably.
She stepped into the shower, turning the water on scorching hot. The scalding spray hit her skin, but it couldn't wash away the sound of the gunshot echoing in the nave. It couldn't wash away the look on her father's face—not terror for her safety, but the naked guilt of a man whose sins had finally caught up with him.
When she stepped out, she dried off quickly and slipped into the black silk robe and simple linen trousers left for her. The fabric was soft, expensive, and carried the faint scent of the estate—sandalwood and cedar.
She opened the bathroom door.
Luca was waiting. He had removed his shoulder holster and laid it on the desk, though the heavy black pistol remained within arm’s reach. He held a crystal glass filled two fingers high with amber scotch.
"Feel better?" he asked, his gaze raking over her form.
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"I will never feel better," Elena said, her voice steadying with sudden, sharp anger. "You murdered someone I cared about. You dragged me here. You think these papers make you righteous? You’re still a butcher."
"I never claimed to be an angel, Elena," Luca took a slow sip of his drink. "I am a debt collector. And right now, your father is deciding what you’re worth."
