“Wow! Tonight? Really?” Donna gushed.
For her audience, she was putting on the best performance of her life. What she was really trying to do was figure out a way to get out of marrying him without blowing her cover. Getting naked was one thing, but fucking him was out of the question. The Feds could go to hell. She wasn’t prostituting herself for them, CPD, or anyone else.
“Tonight,” he confirmed with a toothy grin. “Once we’re married, I’m gonna do things to—”
“Excuse me, Prophet. There’s a problem.”
It was Harry Barber dressed in a tuxedo. Apparently, Bobby Lee’s righthand man didn’t have to dress like a waiter.
“Have Clara handle it,” Bobby Lee dismissed.
“She’s trying, but we need you,” Harry insisted.
Bobby Lee grunted and handed Donna his half-empty glass of champagne.
He turned to Harry. “What is it?” he asked, his irritation evident.
Harry urged him to take a few steps away. They had a hushed conversation that caused Bobby Lee to look over his shoulder. Donna couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she did follow their line of sight. It was Vera. She was crying hysterically in front of an angry, overweight man. He was holding his beet red face as if she’d slapped him, and he seemed to be spouting something that didn’t seem all that pleasant.
“Fuck!” cursed the preacher.
Since his back was to her, Donna rolled her eyes without the risk of getting caught.
Without a word, Bobby Lee and Harry took off toward the disturbance. While she was being nosy, she took advantage of the prophet’s absence and finished his champagne. Then, she finished her own and placed both glasses on a nearby table. She continued to watch until Kelly approached. Since he’d gotten so close to Harry, therefore, close to the prophet, he was also wearing a tux.
“No waiter getup?” she quipped.
“Naw, I guess I’m one of the popular boys. Some of us are here as security, but they want us to blend in.” He swiped an imaginary spot of dirt from his shoulder and grinned. “Hence the monkey suit.”
“What’s happening?” Donna asked, jerking her head toward Vera.
“Apparently, little Miss Vera ain’t the loyal, bubblehead they thought she was. You do know what tonight is about, don’t you?”
“I do now,” Donna scoffed.
She already knew the gala was just a ruse to attract rich men to the cult by using young, attractive women. What she didn’t know until she’d arrived was that the fancy ballroom was nothing more than a glorified house of ill repute. They were using the Glory Gala as a way to pimp naive female followers.
“Look, Kelly. This dude just flipped the script. He’s planning to marry me tonight. Apparently, he can’t wait anymore.”
“Daaamn, girl, you’re better than I thought,” he teased. “You worked him good.”
“I’m not fucking that asshole!”
Kelly chuckled. “Calm down, girl. Tell him you’re on your period or something.”
Donna narrowed her eyes at her partner. He sounded about as naive as the rest of the folks on the compound.
“First of all, Clara knows when we all get our periods. Secondly, when did a fucking period ever stop a pervert from wanting to fuck?”
Kelly blew out a breath. His tone turned serious. “Listen, Detective, nobody expects you to sleep with him or anyone else. Just do the best you can for as long as you can. With the prostitution, the tax shit you found, and the illegal weapons, we’re hitting the home stretch.”
“What exactly do you have on the weapons?” Donna asked. Since the prophet seemed intent on keeping the men and women separated, she found it hard to get progress updates.
“Oh, man,somuch. Look.” He tilted his head toward her right shoulder.
Donna turned and scanned the crowd of well-dressed men. At first, she saw nothing. But then one stood out. And he stood out for one reason and one reason alone. He was panty-dropping, drive you out of your mind gorgeous in a dangerous, “I’ll fuck you and then kill you” sort of way. It was none other than Luca Savelli.
“Ho-ly shit!” Donna marveled.
