Chapter 11 - The Shadow at the Gala
The ballroom of the Boston Harbor Hotel was a cathedral of gold leaf, black marble, and crystal chandeliers. Violins played softly as the most dangerous men and women in the Northeast sipped champagne in designer gowns and bespoke tuxedos.
I wore an emerald silk gown that clung to my waist, my dark hair pinned up with vintage diamond clips. Gideon looked breathtaking in a midnight-black tuxedo, his hazel eyes commanding respect and terror from every corner of the room. When we walked through the double doors together, the entire ballroom fell silent.
"Mr. Vitali," Don Falcone, an old man with white hair and ruthless dark eyes, raised his glass in greeting. "We are honored. And your sight... miraculously returned, I see."
"A good doctor works wonders, Don Falcone," Gideon replied smoothly, clinking his glass against the old man's. "And loyalty is the best medicine."
"Indeed," Falcone smiled thinly, casting an appreciative glance at me. "Take care of him, my dear. In this life, the deadliest snakes are always the ones you don't hear rattling."
For three hours, the evening proceeded like a polished dance of diplomacy and hidden daggers. Gideon never left my side, his hand resting possessively at the small of my back, guiding me through conversations with council members and high-ranking captains.
At midnight, Gideon stepped away to the private balcony to take a secure call from his docks.
"I'll be two minutes," he promised, kissing my temple softly. "Stay by the bar."
"Go," I smiled. "I'm fine."
I walked over to the bar to order a glass of sparkling water. The bartender, an older man with silver hair, set the crystal tumbler in front of me with a napkin.
"For you, Miss Vance," he murmured politely.
I reached for the glass, but as my fingers brushed the linen napkin beneath it, I froze.
Written on the corner of the napkin in crimson ink was a sequence of numbers: *904-B*.
My blood turned to ice.
I flipped the napkin over with trembling hands. On the back, written in sharp, familiar handwriting, was a single, terrifying sentence:
*Marcus was just the messenger, little girl. The real poison hasn't even touched his lips yet.*
May you like
Suddenly, the grand chandeliers overhead flickered violently and died, plunging the entire five-hundred-person ballroom into pitch-black darkness.
Across the room, through the sudden screams of panic, came the muffled, unmistakable sound of a silenced gunshot out on the balcony.
