Page 217 of Ricardo

Still, he is polished.

I will give him that.

“I am an attorney,” he says, arrogantly.

“Yes.”

“And a guest.”

“No,” I say. “You are a substitution.”

His eyes sharpen.

The word does what I intend it to do. It strips away the charity gala, the tuxedo, the borrowed invitation, the civic language. It leaves him with the truth of his position here. He entered in someone else’s place. Someone else’s permission. Someone else’s name.

A man who begins as a substitution should not presume he has the rights of a guest.

Lorenzo smiles faintly. “This way.”

Rusk does not move.

I do not touch him.

Neither does Lorenzo.

Tomasso does not block the ballroom doors, not obviously, but he stands close enough to make it clear there is no choice.

Rusk’s gaze moves from me to Lorenzo, then toward the service corridor.

“I don’t appreciate being handled.”

“You haven't been handled. Yet,” I say.

For a moment, I think pride may make him stupid.

Then he starts walking.

The service corridor behind the ballroom smells faintly of coffee, food, dish water, and floor cleaner. Staff pass at the far end, but none come near us. A catering cart rolls through one doorway at precisely the right time, blocking the view from the kitchen hall for the few seconds it takes us to move beyond the camera’s ordinary angle.

Tomasso has done this well.

“I'm sure if you call my office and speak to them, they can clear this up quickly.”

No one responds.

The elevator arrives.

I step in first, then Rusk, followed by Lorenzo. Tomasso remains outside. The doors slide closed, and the sounds of the gala vanish completely.

For three floors, no one speaks.

Rusk watches our reflections in the polished metal doors. His pulse beats too fast at the side of his throat, though his face remains pleasant. A man can train his mouth. The body is less loyal.

When the doors open on the lower level, the hotel becomes concrete, pipes, utility carts, marked doors, freight access. Edoardo waits near the garage entrance, his phone to his ear, one shoulder against the wall. He ends the call when he sees us.

“Car is ready,” he says.

Rusk stops.