"It’s your death warrant."
The terrace door opens behind me.
Two men.
They aren't guests. The suits are ill-fitting, straining at the shoulders. Their haircuts are military. They move with coordinated precision.
Volkov security.
"Councilman Hargrove," the first one says. Russian accent. Thick. "Your car is ready."
"I—yes. Thank you."
Hargrove moves toward them. He’s running to his executioners because he’s too scared of me.
He brushes past me.
I calculate. Two shooters. I have the Glock. I can drop them both before they clear leather. But the noise... the panic inside...
And then I hear it.
A sound from the ballroom. Glass breaking. A shout.
And Alessandro’s voice. Sharp. Raised.
Hargrove or Alessandro.
The choice isn't even a choice.
I turn. I let Hargrove go. I sprint back through the service door.
I hit the ballroom. The crowd has knotted near the east wall. Security is moving in.
I push through. I shove a donor out of my way. "Move."
I see him.
Alessandro.
He is standing near a marble column. His suit is unruffled. His face is calm.
But his right hand is gripping the wrist of a waiter. The waiter is holding a steak knife. Alessandro has the wrist bent back at an impossible angle, the knife pointed at the floor.
He disarmed him.
Hotel security arrives. They grab the waiter. They drag him away.
Alessandro adjusts his cuff. He looks up. He finds me in the crowd.
He nods.I'm fine.
I exhale. My heart is hammering against my ribs.
I walk to him. I put my hand on the small of his back.
"You okay?"
"Amateur," he says disdainfully. "Freelancer. Poor form. He tried to stab me with a serrated blade."
