Chapter 116 – Custom Clothes
"John."
The voice carried the specific quality of someone who had spent decades in rooms where composure was not optional and had made it so thoroughly their own that it no longer required effort. Deep, unhurried, carrying the faint suggestion of a smile without fully committing to one.
John turned. "Julius."
A man in his fifties crossed the lobby toward them. His suit had been made for his specific body by someone who took their work seriously — the fit was exact in the way that distinguished a custom garment from an expensive one. His scarf was white and immaculate. He moved through the space with the ease of someone for whom this was not a hotel but a domain.
He stopped in front of John with the warmth of genuine familiarity — the specific warmth of two people who had known each other for a long time in a world where knowing someone for a long time meant something.
"It's good to see you," Julius said.
Then his gaze moved to Ethan, and it held there for a moment — not the evaluative scan of someone sizing up an unknown variable, but the brief confirmation of someone checking a known piece of information against reality.
"Dr. Ethan Rayne."
Ethan registered the use of his full name in a city where he'd never been before, and kept his expression neutral.
"That's me."
Julius smiled. The smile had layers to it — genuine pleasantness on the surface, and underneath that, something that suggested he found the situation mildly entertaining.
"I am Julius. Manager of the Rome branch of the Continental Hotel." He paused. "This is our first formal meeting. However, your name has been circulating through several branches for some time now."
He left that statement exactly where it landed, without elaboration.
The three of them settled into chairs in a quieter corner of the lobby.
"I can't remember the last time you were in Rome," Julius said to John. His tone remained light. "Last I heard, you had retired."
"I had," John said.
Julius leaned forward slightly. "Then let me ask you directly. Are you here for the Bishop?"
Ethan filed the word Bishop without asking about it.
"No," John said.
Something in Julius's posture settled — barely perceptible, but present. "Good."
He turned to Ethan with the smooth pivot of someone moving between conversations that required different registers.
"Dr. Rayne. The Continental Hotel is honored to have you here." He paused. "During your stay, if any of our guests require medical attention — would you be willing to be available?"
Ethan ran the calculation quickly.
Side income on a trip he was already making. Access to clients he otherwise wouldn't encounter. The specific intelligence value of knowing who needed what kind of treatment in an environment like this.
"I can do that," he said. "But my rates are not low."
"A doctor endorsed by the Boogeyman," Julius said, with the same measured pleasantness, "commands whatever rates he determines appropriate. There will always be guests who can afford them."
"Diagnosis is one gold coin," Ethan said. "Treatment starts at ten. Serious cases, negotiated upfront."
He thought of a practical concern. "What happens if someone agrees to treatment and then can't pay when it's done? I won't be in Rome long enough to wait for collection."
"Quote before treating," Julius said. "Once the patient agrees, the Continental guarantees the transaction is completed. We don't allow debts to go unpaid within our network."
"Then I'm satisfied."
Julius produced two room cards from his jacket pocket and placed them on the table between himself and John.
"I've had our best rooms prepared for you. Top floor. Quiet. Good views. Completely private from each other." He looked at the card for a moment before adding, in the same easy tone: "Rome has been somewhat unsettled lately. For a doctor, a safe and quiet base is always the wisest arrangement."
John's gaze shifted almost imperceptibly.
Ethan accepted the room card with a nod.
"Thank you."
"If you require anything beyond standard Continental services during your stay," Julius said, standing, "please tell the front desk. They'll reach me immediately." He gave a slight, practiced bow — the specific formality of someone who had been operating in this world long enough that courtesy had become instinct. "I hope your stay is productive."
He turned and walked away, his footsteps disappearing into the corridor's quiet.
John watched him go.
"Your reputation," he said, after a moment, "has traveled further than I expected."
Ethan turned the room card over in his hand. "Apparently."
"But they only know the outline," John added. "Not the specifics."
They went upstairs, dropped their luggage, and Ethan had approximately forty minutes to sit on a bed that was very good and look out a window that framed Rome in a way that suggested the city had arranged itself specifically to be looked at before John knocked on his door.
"We need to go somewhere," John said.
"Where?"
"To buy clothes."
Ethan looked at what he was wearing, which was a perfectly functional set of clothes that had survived a transatlantic flight without incident.
John did not offer further context. He simply turned toward the hallway.
Ethan followed.
From the outside, the building was nothing. An unremarkable façade on an unremarkable street — the kind of building that existed in every old European city as a remnant of some previous century's purpose, now repurposed into something the exterior gave no information about.
Inside was different.
The space was long and narrow, with a ceiling that felt deliberately low, the kind of interior that encouraged you to focus downward rather than around. The windows were half-covered with fabric and the specific patina of accumulated years, letting in light that arrived already filtered, already diffuse.
The illumination came from desk lamps — cold white light that fell on long wooden worktables with the precision of task lighting. And what the task lighting illuminated was: stitching, thread, leather, fabric, measuring tape — the expected inventory of a serious workshop.
And between those things: other materials. Reinforced fabric with a weight that had nothing to do with thread count. Dark, close-woven composites that had no business being in a tailor shop. Metal components in sizes and shapes that served no decorative function.
This was a place that made two kinds of things: suits that looked like suits, and suits that were something else entirely.
A dozen workers moved through the space with their heads down, focused on their respective stations. Nobody talked. The sound of sewing machines was the room's only conversation.
John walked to the nearest worktable.
A woman was at a machine, her attention completely on her work. He placed two gold coins on the table edge without interrupting her rhythm. She registered them, stopped the machine, picked up the coins with the practiced indifference of someone who had done this transaction many times, and stood up.
She lit a cigarette on the way through.
She led them through the full length of the workshop to the back — past all the stations, past the machines and the workers and the rolls of material that were definitely not what they looked like — to a door guarded by two men in suits who stood like they'd been stationary for hours and had no objection to continuing.
The woman with the cigarette walked through without slowing. The door opened ahead of her.
The man who greeted them was a study in understatement.
Close-cropped hair, impeccably fitted suit with no ornamentation, the specific stillness of someone who had decided long ago that competence was more interesting than display. The only detail that announced his function was the measuring tape hanging around his neck.
"Mr. Wick." He extended his hand. "Welcome back."
"Hello, Angelo." John shook it, then turned. "This is a friend of mine."
Angelo shook Ethan's hand with the brief, assessing attention of someone whose job required accurate physical measurements and who had started applying that attention to the world generally.
"Welcome to Rome." He looked at John. "You need suits?"
"For both of us. Yes."
Angelo produced the tape immediately. He had John stand, began measuring, called out numbers that a nearby assistant recorded without being asked.
"Mr. Wick. Purpose? Formal or social?"
"Social."
"Day or night?"
"Both. One of each, for each of us."
"Style?"
"Italian."
"Button configuration?"
"Two."
"Trouser cut?"
"Tapered."
"Lining?"
"Tactical."
Angelo nodded as if this were an ordinary specification, which in this room it apparently was. He described the composition with the same neutral efficiency he'd applied to everything else: silicon carbide discs, ceramic layering, metal laminate composite, distributed through the garment between layers. Impervious to most bladed weapons. Significant resistance to standard ammunition.
"It will take some impact," he said. "You'll feel it. But you'll be standing."
He turned to Ethan.
"Same configuration for this gentleman?"
"Different," John said.
Angelo raised an eyebrow a fraction. "Same purpose?"
"Different purpose."
John glanced at Ethan. "Protection is the priority for him."
Angelo refocused on Ethan. "Closed space or open ground?"
Ethan opened his mouth to say he wasn't sure what that question meant in this context—
"Closed," John said.
"Anticipated number of contacts?"
"Multiple."
Angelo exhaled through his nose. "That configuration is heavier."
"That's acceptable," John said.
"Style?"
"German cut."
Angelo's expression shifted almost imperceptibly — the micro-adjustment of someone who has just received a specification that requires a different approach. "Then we sacrifice the silhouette. Shoulders, chest, and abdomen reinforced as a single integrated structure. Three internal closures rather than external buttons — slower to open, but stable under stress."
He looked at Ethan's legs. "Trousers?"
"Straight cut," John said. "Same lining as the jacket."
"Mobility will be reduced." Angelo said it as information, not as a caveat.
"Acceptable," John said.
"And the primary lining?"
John didn't hesitate. "Maximum defensive grade."
Angelo wrote this down. "Full-coverage silicon carbide ceramic composite. Integrated metal mesh. Embedded shock distribution panels." He looked at Ethan with the focused calm of someone completing a technical specification. "Close-range pistol rounds are not a concern in this configuration. Rifle fire at distance — depending on the round, you're looking at significant bruising at worst. Glancing impacts at closer range, manageable."
He capped his pen.
"Rush delivery to the hotel?"
"Yes," John said.
Angelo gave a slight nod and withdrew to begin whatever came next in his process.
They walked back through the workshop in the direction they'd come from.
Ethan waited until they were outside and moving back toward the hotel before he said anything.
"What exactly just happened in there?"
"Suits," John said.
"Angelo just ordered a bulletproof vest disguised as a German business suit for me. With shock distribution panels."
"Yes."
"Without asking me."
"You were going to ask questions," John said. "Questions would have taken time."
Ethan processed this. "So you ordered yourself a suit that lets you move and fight, and you ordered me a suit that makes me a portable bunker."
"Correct."
"John. I'm a doctor. Not a tank."
"I'm aware."
"If I wanted full plate armor I would have chosen a different character class."
John looked at him. This reference landed somewhere, evidently, because something in his expression acknowledged it without becoming anything you could call amusement.
"The suits are not for offense," John said. "They're to prevent you from being caught by something that was aimed at someone else."
He adjusted his jacket cuffs.
"I will handle running, fighting, and resolving the situation."
He looked at Ethan directly.
"You are responsible for remaining alive."
Ethan held that for a moment.
"And these suits are sufficient for that?"
"Against collateral," John said. "Against people whose target is someone other than you — yes. Sufficient."
"And if someone decides their target is me?"
John was quiet for a beat.
"Then we have a different conversation," he said.
He started walking again.
"But their target is not you. You are unknown here. Unknown is protected."
Ethan fell into step beside him, thinking about the specific comfort of being described as a non-target in Rome by the man most qualified to know who the targets were.
"That's the most reassuring thing you've said to me all week," he said.
John didn't respond.
But he also didn't disagree.
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