Chapter 1 - THE WHISPER UNDER THE TABLE
“Whatever happens next,” Vincent whispered, “do not let go of my hand.”
I stared at him.
That was not remotely reassuring.
Outside the tablecloth, my mother was still speaking.
“Evelyn is independent, intelligent, and far too stubborn for most men.”
Vincent’s mother laughed softly.
“Then she may be exactly what Vincent needs.”
I turned toward him.
“Needs?”
His thumb moved once across my knuckles.
“Stay quiet.”
“You’re very bossy for a man hiding under furniture.”
His mouth almost curved.
Then the ballroom doors opened.
Heavy footsteps crossed the floor.
Vincent’s expression changed instantly.
The amused stranger who had shared half a sandwich with me disappeared.
In his place sat the man Chicago whispered about.
Still.
Cold.
Dangerous.
Someone said, “Mrs. Marino.”
Vincent’s mother answered sharply.
“What is it?”
A man lowered his voice.
“Mr. Marino’s security team found something.”
Vincent’s hand tightened around mine.
Outside, my mother asked, “Is there a problem?”
“No,” Mrs. Marino replied too quickly.
Vincent leaned closer.
“Evelyn, when I tell you to move, crawl toward the service door behind us.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Don’t argue.”
“That is an unreasonable request.”
His eyes locked onto mine.
“Someone brought a gun into the gala.”
All the humor vanished from my body.
“What?”
“Quiet.”
My heart started pounding.
Then another voice came from outside.
Male.
Calm.
“I believe I’m looking for Vincent.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
I knew that voice.
Not personally.
But I had heard it earlier near the ballroom bar.
The respectable widower my mother wanted me to meet.
Mr. Three Children, Two Divorces, One Yacht.
Apparently he had upgraded from irritating to dangerous.
My mother said warmly, “Mr. Caldwell, what perfect timing. We were just discussing Evelyn.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
I almost laughed.
“This is the widower,” I mouthed.
He looked offended on my behalf.
“Your mother tried to marry you to him?”
I nodded.
“That is insulting.”
“Focus.”
Caldwell continued, “I would be delighted to meet Miss Hartwell.”
Vincent’s expression went flat.
“Absolutely not,” he whispered.
I stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
Before he could answer, a phone rang outside.
A man said, “Boss, west exit is compromised.”
Vincent moved immediately.
He lifted the tablecloth.
“Now.”
I crawled.
There are moments in life when dignity becomes optional.
Crawling across a ballroom carpet in a burgundy evening gown while Chicago’s most feared criminal followed behind me was one of them.
We reached the service door.
Vincent stood first, then pulled me upright.
His body blocked mine automatically.
I noticed it.
So did he.
“Stay behind me.”
“I hate that sentence.”
“Learn to tolerate it.”
A security man appeared.
Tall.
Black suit.
Earpiece.
“Boss.”
“Marco?”
“Two armed men near the loading dock. One had Caldwell’s credentials.”
My stomach dropped.
Vincent looked toward me.
“Your mother knows him?”
“She met him through a friend.”
“Name?”
“Patricia Wells.”
Marco went still.
Vincent noticed.
“What?”
Marco looked at him.
“That name again.”
My chest tightened.
“What do you mean again?”
Vincent didn’t answer.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me down the service corridor.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Why would anyone at this gala care about me?”
“That is what I intend to find out.”
A crash sounded behind us.
Vincent shoved me against the wall and covered me with his body.
Footsteps.
A gunshot.
I flinched.
Vincent did not.
Marco returned fire from the hallway corner.
Then silence.
My entire body shook.
Vincent looked down.
“You hurt?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Then his eyes dropped to my necklace.
A simple antique gold locket my grandmother had left me.
His face changed.
“What?”
He reached toward it but stopped before touching.
“Where did you get that?”
“My grandmother.”
“Which grandmother?”
“My mother’s mother.”
His eyes hardened.
“What was her name?”
“Rose Hartwell.”
Vincent stepped back.
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
Marco looked at the necklace too.
“Boss?”
Vincent stared at me like I had become something impossible.
“That locket belonged to my grandmother.”
I laughed nervously.
“That’s not possible.”
He shook his head.
“I’ve seen it in photographs.”
My heart pounded.
“Then maybe there were two.”
“No.”
His voice became quiet.
“There was only one.”
I touched the locket.
“What are you saying?”
Vincent looked toward the locked service door.
Then back at me.
“I’m saying your family and mine were connected long before tonight.”
Before I could speak, my phone buzzed.
A message from my mother.
EVELYN, DO NOT LEAVE WITH VINCENT MARINO.
May you like
A second message appeared immediately.
IF HE SEES THE LOCKET, RUN.
