Chapter 180
Nikolai's POV
I stared at the contents of my hotel closet with the same analytical precision I'd once used to evaluate assassination scenarios. Three black suits. Two charcoal gray suits. One navy that was so dark it might as well be black. All perfectly tailored. All completely appropriate for board meetings, funerals, or covert operations.
None of them remotely suitable for a wedding.
My phone buzzed. Thomas Russell's name appeared on the screen.
"Question. Do you own anything that doesn't look like you're attending a state funeral or planning to overthrow a government?"
I found myself smiling despite the absurdity of the situation. I typed back: "I was just asking myself the same question. My closet looks like a KGB training manual on 'How to Blend In at Somber Occasions.'"
The response came quickly: "Mine looks like a four-star general's retirement party. We have a problem."
"We do."
"Castellano & Sons? In the Garment District. We should probably discuss this in person before we both show up to our children's wedding looking like we're about to negotiate an arms treaty."
I checked my watch. Viktor had the dissolution protocols well in hand. The operatives were being processed through the transition system with surprising efficiency. For once, I had a few hours where I wasn't desperately needed to dismantle my own empire.
"Send me the address. I'll be there in thirty minutes."
---
Forty minutes later, Thomas and I stood in front of a three-way mirror, both wearing variations of dark charcoal suits that the tailor had pulled from his ready-to-wear section.
"Thoughts?" Thomas asked.
I studied our reflections. We looked like exactly what we were—two men accustomed to authority and violence, dressed for serious business.
"We look like we're about to negotiate an arms deal," I said flatly.
"Or attend a very formal funeral," Thomas agreed. "Multiple funerals. Possibly funerals we caused."
The tailor cleared his throat. "Perhaps—and I say this with all due respect, gentlemen—perhaps we should consider something less... severe."
"Less severe how?" I asked.
"Well." He moved toward a different rack, pulling out fabrics in navy and charcoal-blue. "A wedding is a celebration. These colors are still formal, still dignified, but they don't—" He paused delicately. "They don't make you look quite so much like you're attending a state funeral."
Thomas and I looked at each other.
"He's got a point," Thomas said.
"He does."
The tailor handed us each a navy jacket. "Try these. And gentlemen? Perhaps try to remember that you're shopping for a joyous occasion. Not a covert operation."
I slipped into the navy jacket. It was lighter than what I usually wore—summer-weight wool that actually breathed instead of the heavy fabrics I'd gravitated toward for decades. The color softened something in my face, made the gray in my hair look distinguished instead of just old.
"Better," Thomas said, studying me critically. "You look less like you're about to deliver bad news to a head of state."
"You look less like you're about to inspect a military base," I countered. His charcoal-blue suited him—formal but not severe, authoritative without being intimidating.
"Progress," the tailor murmured. "Now. Let's talk about fit."
An hour later, we'd been measured, pinned, assessed, and gently bullied into accessories neither of us would have chosen on our own. Pocket squares. Cufflinks that weren't just functional but actually decorative. Ties in colors that complemented rather than just existing as "not black."
"I feel like I'm being dressed by someone's very patient grandmother," Thomas muttered as the tailor fussed with his collar.
"I feel like I'm being prepared for a mission where the objective is 'don't look like you've killed people,'" I replied.
The tailor's assistant—a young woman who'd appeared from the back room and seemed remarkably unfazed by our running commentary—actually giggled. "You two are handling this better than most fathers. Usually, we get a lot more resistance to the pocket squares."
"We're adaptable," Thomas said dryly. "It's a survival skill."
"Clearly." She stepped back, surveying us both with an artist's critical eye. "You know what? You two actually look good together. The navy and charcoal-blue complement each other. And you've got similar builds, similar coloring—" She glanced at the tailor. "Uncle Tony, what do you think? Should they coordinate?"
The tailor—Tony, apparently—studied us thoughtfully. "You're both standing in the wedding? Together?"
I looked at Thomas. We hadn't discussed this explicitly. Hadn't planned anything beyond simply showing up and trying not to make things worse.
"Julian asked me to walk with you," Thomas said quietly. "During the ceremony. Said something about—" He paused. "About two fathers who failed their children standing together. Supporting each other. Showing that even catastrophic mistakes don't have to define us forever."
I felt something shift in my chest. The image crystallized—standing beside Thomas Russell in our coordinated suits, two men who'd destroyed our relationships in different ways but were trying, however inadequately, to rebuild.
"Then yes," I said. "We should coordinate."
Tony beamed. "Excellent! This is going to look wonderful. Two distinguished gentlemen, clearly present for their children's joy—"
"Clearly trying very hard not to look like we've spent our entire careers in morally ambiguous professions," I muttered.
Thomas snorted. "Speak for yourself. My career was very clearly morally ambiguous. No trying required."
"Fair point."
The assistant was writing everything down in a leather notebook, occasionally glancing up at us with barely suppressed amusement. "You two are definitely the most entertaining clients we've had this week."
"We contain multitudes," Thomas said solemnly. "Most of them inappropriate for polite society."
"But we're working on it," I added. "Hence the pocket squares and the colors that aren't black."
"Baby steps," the assistant agreed.
Tony finished his final adjustments and stepped back. "Gentlemen, I think we've found your looks. The suits will be ready Wednesday morning. I'll have everything sent over Wednesday afternoon. That gives you time to try everything on, make sure the fit is perfect, address any last-minute concerns."
"Thank you," I said, and meant it. "For understanding. For—" I struggled for words. "For helping us get this right."
"It's what we do." Tony's eyes were suspiciously bright. "And if I may say so—your children are very brave. To give you both this chance. To let you be part of their joy after—" He gestured, encompassing all the unspoken trauma and failure. "After everything."
Thomas cleared his throat roughly. I focused on a spot on the wall, not trusting my voice.
The assistant saved us. "Okay! Let's get you both back into your regular clothes. Unless you want to wear the new suits out? Really commit to the 'not looking like we're planning covert operations' aesthetic?"
"Tempting," Thomas said. "But I think we should save them for the actual wedding. Maintain the element of surprise."
"Tactical thinking," I approved. "I like it."