We are intercepted immediately by our Forward Operating Base.
Jax O’Connell is leaning against a pillar, looking ruggedly out of place in his charcoal suit and combat boots. Next to him, Maxwell looks like he was carved out of marble and anxiety, gripping a glass of sparkling water like it’s a grenade pin.
“Velvet,” Jax whistles low, pushing off the pillar to circle Luke. “Bold. High visibility. I like it. You look like you’re about to drop the hottest R&B album of 1996.”
“Thank you?” Luke asks, bewildered.
“It’s a compliment,” Max sighs, straightening his own perfect tie. “He means you look distinct. Mother is going to have an aneurysm.”
“That’s the mission objective,” I say. “Max, you look rigid. What’s the sitrep on Alistair?”
“Father is drinking something blue,” Max says, his voice flat. “He calls it a ‘Blue Lagoon.’ I call it ‘Chemical Warfare.’ And he is currently in a heated negotiation with the Archbishop.”
“Negotiation?” I ask.
Max points toward the bar. Alistair is standing toe-to-toe with Archbishop O’Malley, a man in a full clerical collar and a red sash. Alistair is holding a wad of cash. The Archbishop is holding a racing form.
“They are betting on the ice sculpture,” Jax explains. “Alistair took the under on the wings melting. The Archbishop is doubling down on structural failure. For a man of God, he has a very aggressive betting strategy.”
“The Church has been liquid for two thousand years, Jax,” I note. “You don’t get that kind of capital by playing it safe.”
“Speaking of unsafe,” Jax nods toward the centre of the room. “High-value targets at twelve o’clock. The Matriarch. And she’s with Vane.”
I freeze. I follow his gaze.
Standing next to my mother is a man who looks like a walrus stuffed into a tuxedo.Harrison Vane Sr.The shipping magnate. The man who tried to donate rusty steel to the hospital. And, more importantly, the father ofHarrison Vane Jr.—the cape-wearing, ascot-loving nightmare my mother threatened to seat me next to at Easter.
“Vane,” I hiss. “The father of the Cape Boy.”
“Cape Boy?” Luke asks.
“Harrison Junior,” I explain grimly. “Mother tried to set me up with him. He collects antique canes and thinks the gold standard should be reinstated. He is my nemesis.”
“And his father is a shark,” Max warns. “Be careful. He’s looking for blood.”
We move as a phalanx toward the main circle.
“Maxwell, Preston,” Catherine says as we approach. She looks at Jax’s boots and sighs—a sound of pure defeat. Then she looks at Luke’s velvet. She blinks. “Blue. I said Black Tie. Not…Moulin Rouge.”
“It absorbs light, Mother,” I say. “It’s stealth technology.”
“It’s a fire hazard,” Alistair booms happily, joining us. The Archbishop trails behind him, tucking a stack of hundred-dollar bills into his sash. “Silva! You look like a Bond villain. I love it. Tell me, do you have a white cat?”
“No, sir,” Luke says.
“Pity. Harrison, look at this. This is the boy Preston dragged in from the wild.”
Harrison Vane Sr. turns. He has a face like a slab of cured ham. He sneers at Luke.
“The scholarship hire,” Vane booms. His voice carries. “Alistair tells me you’re letting the staff mingle with the donors tonight. Very progressive. I suppose someone has to be around to clean up if a glass breaks.”
The air leaves the group. Jax stiffens, his weight shifting forward into a fighting stance. Max’s jaw tightens.
I decide to execute a preemptive strike.
“Mr. Vane,” I say, stepping into the kill box. “So good to see you. I assume Harrison Junior isn't joining us? Or did he get his cape caught in a revolving door again?”
Vane’s eyes narrow. “My son is at a retreat in the Alps.”
