Chapter 1 - The Stranger in the Ballroom
The heavy oak door of the Plaza ballroom clicked shut behind Leo, leaving Mave stranded against the cold marble pillar with her champagne flute untouched. The air inside the grand hall smelled suffocatingly sweet, a sickening blend of imported orchids, roasted duck, and the expensive desperation of politicians and syndicate capos trying to buy their way into heaven. Mave adjusted the strap of her midnight-blue silk dress, wishing she were back at her mahogany desk balancing clean books. Three columns still did not balance in her mind, haunted by the thirty thousand dollars bleeding from a Belize offshore account into a New Jersey trucking company. But math was safe. People were dangerous.
Across the room, Vincent Costa stood near a melting ice sculpture, nodding politely as a state senator droned on about zoning permits. To anyone else, Vincent looked like the quintessential billionaire philanthropist attending a charity event for the pediatric wing. But Mave knew the truth. She knew the faint bruise on his left cheekbone wasn't from a fall; she knew the exact weight of the Sig Sauer tucked beneath his tailored charcoal jacket; and she knew, with a terrifying certainty, that his dark eyes cataloged every single exit in the room every four seconds.
Except tonight, his gaze kept drifting away from the politicians. It kept finding her.
Mave felt the phantom heat of his attention burning across her skin. She broke eye contact, looking down at her phone screen, pretending to check her schedule for the morning docks delivery. When she looked back up, the rhythm of the ballroom had subtly shifted. The orchestra was still playing a gentle Valse; guests were still laughing and clinking crystal glasses; yet the perimeter of the room had tightened. A strange, suffocating gravity seemed to pull all the oxygen out of the air.
Near the double mahogany doors stood a man who did not belong.
His tuxedo was slightly too loose across the broad shoulders, suggesting a concealed holster beneath. His pale hair was cropped painfully close to his scalp, and a jagged, thick white scar cut vertically across his left eyebrow. He held no drink, spoke to no one, and made no pretense of enjoying the charity gala. He was simply watching.
Mave pulled up the digital security guest list on her phone, scrolling rapidly through the names of city aldermen, judges, and underworld associates. The scarred man was not on it.
Panic fluttered sharply in her chest. She looked toward Vincent.
Vincent had already seen him.
The polite, political mask melted from Vincent’s face instantly. He stopped the senator mid-sentence, cutting off the man with a cold, absolute silence, and began walking. He wasn't walking toward the stranger. He was walking directly toward Mave.
The scarred man saw Vincent move. A slow, cruel smile stretched across his thin lips. He pushed off the double doors and began cutting through the sea of expensive gowns and tailored suits, his stride purposeful and predatory.
Mave stepped backward until the hard marble pillar pressed firmly against her spine. There was nowhere left to run.
The stranger was twenty feet away. Then fifteen.
Suddenly, a wall of charcoal fabric and expensive cologne intercepted the space between them.
Vincent.
May you like
He did not look at her. His broad shoulders blocked her completely from the stranger's line of sight, his dark eyes locked like loaded cannons onto the approaching threat.
“Don’t move,” Vincent murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent shivers straight down Mave's spine.
