The address Sofia had once mentioned—"If you ever need to look like you own the bank, not just work there, go to Rossi's"—led me to a nondescript door in the Financial District. No sign. Just a brass buzzer.
I pressed it.
A buzzer sounded, and the door clicked open.
Inside, it smelled of steam, wool, and old money. An elderly Italian man with a tape measure around his neck looked up from a bolt of midnight-blue fabric.
"I don't do walk-ins," he said, not unkindly.
"Sofia Aldridge sent me," I said.
He paused. "Ah. La Bella Sofia. She has... expensive taste." He looked me up and down. "And you have... potential. But your shoulders are tense. You are fighting a war?"
"Something like that," I said. "I need a tuxedo. For the Sterling Winter Ball."
He whistled low. "The Sterling Ball. That is not a party. That is a coronation. You need armor."
He went to work.
