Double Agent

○ thirteen ○

Clothes are delivered to my room the morning of the third day's wait. They are crisp, tailored, clean and smell expensive. The pants are black and figure hugging, but airy and boosts my mobility. I navigate through the straps and pockets for what I assume must be for storing weapons, and slide my way into it.

It's a perfect fit.

The tank top goes on next. It's black and cuts off before the pants start. As usually, the material is tight but breathable. Overall, it feels like a bodysuit, and nothing feels like it's hanging out or in the way. Everything about my body is accentuated, every perfection and every flaw.

I'm aware I'm dressed in full black, but I feel smart, serious, and important. Everything that I am not back home. I slick my hair back into a ponytail and walk into his room.

It's regal. He must have an obsession with black because everything in his room is black or grey or marble or darkwood. His bed and headboard are backlit and stand out against the setting sun of the New York skyline.

Ezra rolls the cuffs of his dress shirt up, facing a mirror. His eyes lock onto mine through the mirror, and there they remain as he sprays cologne over himself.

He turns around, bracing his hands behind him on the dresser as his eyes run up and down what I'm wearing. They linger a bit too long on the curve of my hips, but when they finally return to my face the dark brown has evaporated into risky black.

He gives his black wrist watch a look. Is that a Rolex? I've lost count of just how much privilege this man has.

"Breakfast, and then we'll have to leave."

His blazer is slung over his arm.

"ECHA?" I call out, "Car, please."

"Yes, your highness."

I've had a bit too much fun with allowing ECHA to call me whatever I want. Since Ezra is adamant that I'm a privileged little princess from the Cosa Nostra, I've just decided to run with it.

"Thank you, ECHA."

"You're welcome, miss."

"You don't have to thank it every bloody time."

"She's not an it, she's a her," I protest.

"For the love of fuck," he grumbles, shaking his head and walking faster to get away from me.

—

I beat the eggs as he butters the bread. We've created a routine in the kitchen, one that I've grown to appreciate tremendously. He lets me do the simple tasks, allows me to experience new tastes and play with textures.

I like cooking now. I like how food tastes. I like that I can now have fresh vegetables and goods every day. He showed me how to make some simple dishes, and just last night I managed to make a bowl of pasta for myself. He doesn't say much and he's grumpy all the time, but I've never felt more validated than when he nodded at me in affirmation yesterday, a plate of my pesto in his hands.

The eggs sizzle over the pan as he reaches over me to get some plates and put the toast on it.

I think I'm getting stronger. My weekly sessions with Anna have increased my strength and my skill. The food I get everyday has filled up the skinnier parts of me and now when I look in the mirror I see a healthier, more colourful version of myself.

"Do we not need to get weapons at HQ?"

"Bold of you to assume you'll be getting any."

"Fuck off. I'm serious."

"No, we're not getting weapons at HQ."

"Well we can't just head into a crime neighbourhood with nothing."