"I'm going to scowl."
"Perfect."
We enter the lobby. It is a cathedral of marble and crystal. The air is cool, scented with expensive perfume and champagne. We walk toward the Grand Ballroom.
The hush starts the moment we enter the room.
It ripples outward from the door, silencing conversations, turning heads. Four hundred people in tuxedos and gowns, and every single one of them is looking at us.
I feel the attention like a physical weight. Fear. Curiosity. Judgement.
They see the bruises I couldn't hide with makeup—the yellow shadow on my jaw. They see the way I stand—weight forward, ready to move. They see the mark on Alessandro’s neck.
Good.
I hold the gaze of every man who looks at me. One by one. I let them see the deadness in my eyes. I let them see the violence I am holding back on a leash.
They look away. Every single one. Politicians. Bankers. Mob bosses. They look away because their instincts tell them to. They recognize a predator when it walks into the room.
Alessandro navigates. His hand on my arm steers me through the crowd. He stops. He greets people. He speaks in that warm, polished voice that reveals nothing.
"Senator," he says, shaking the hand of a man with a comb-over and a nervous tick. "Lovely to see you."
"Alessandro. And... your husband." The Senator looks at me, then quickly looks away. "Killian."
"Senator," I say. My voice is flat. I don't offer my hand.
The Senator swallows. "Of course. Lovely evening."
We move on.
We work the room for twenty minutes. Alessandro is brilliant. He charms, he deflects, he drops hints about mergers and acquisitions. He plays the role of the devoted husband perfectly, touching my arm, leaning in to whisper in my ear.
"Relax your shoulders," he whispers. "You look like you're about to punch the waiter."
"The waiter looked at you wrong."
"The waiter is looking at my tip. Relax."
"There," Alessandro says suddenly.
I follow his gaze.
Councilman Hargrove.
He is holding court near the bar. Tall, silver-haired, handsome in a way that costs money. He is laughing at something a donor said, his head thrown back. He is holding a crystal tumbler of scotch. He looks comfortable. He looks safe.
"I'll engage from the east," Alessandro murmurs. "I'll corner him with the financials. Make him sweat. I'll ask about the Cyprus accounts."
"And me?"
"West corridor. Service hallway. It leads to the terrace. When he runs—and he will run—he'll head for the quietest exit. He won't want a scene."
"You want me waiting."
"I want you inevitable."
He squeezes my arm once, then lets go.
