“This is the Bratva, my dear,” she says mildly. “Everything is a possibility. Now, come on. Put the dress on and don’t dawdle.”
She unzips the back of the dress and helps me slip into it. Then she zips me back up and twists me around to face the floor-length mirror.
“Oh…” I say, staring at my reflection.
I finger the soft, floaty fabric of the dress. The dress cinches in slightly at the waist, highlighting my figure, and then flounces out around my thighs.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “But…”
“Now what?” Yulia asks impatiently.
I gesture at the neckline. “Look at this.”
The bodice of the dress is tight. It pushes my breasts up, making them appear twice as big.
“I fail to see the issue.”
I sigh, but don’t argue. There’s no point. She’s as stubborn as her son.
Yulia looks smugly pleased
