And somewhere, in a penthouse with no cross on the wall, the devil pours himself a martini (dirty, like his work) and raises the glass to his own reflection.
And you? You walk home under the streetlights. Your reflection in the shop windows is stunning. People turn to stare. Someone whispers, “Who is that?” El Diablo Viste A La Moda
He adjusts his cufflinks. Skulls. Ironic. And somewhere, in a penthouse with no cross
You raise your arms. He slides the jacket onto your shoulders. It weighs nothing. It feels like victory. El Diablo Viste A La Moda
“Arms up,” he says softly. “Let’s see your insecurities.”
The buyer nods and orders double.
“What suit?”