BENEATH THE CHANDELIER

Frankie did not blink. He merely held up a cocktail napkin, offering it as if finding his boss under a table with a woman in a burgundy dress was a daily occurrence.

Rocco wiped the mayonnaise from his thumb. “No, Frankie. We were just leaving.”

Evelyn scrambled out first, her cheeks burning. She smoothed her skirt, acutely aware of how the silk clung to her hips. When Rocco emerged, the sheer size of him in the open ballroom was staggering. Under the table, he had been a conspirator. Out here, under the crystal chandeliers, he was the intimidating head of the Ventresca family again.

“Your mother went toward the terrace,” Frankie murmured, handing Rocco a heavy, tarnished silver pocket watch. “And yours, Miss Hartwell, is currently cornering Mr. Colby near the ice sculpture.”

Evelyn groaned, rubbing her temples. “If I don’t go over there, she’s going to announce our engagement before he’s even learned my middle name.”

“Allow me,” Rocco said. His voice was a low rumble that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine.

Before she could protest, he offered his arm. Evelyn hesitated, looking at his tattooed wrist peeking out from the crisp white cuff. She placed her hand on his sleeve. The muscle beneath was like iron.

They walked across the ballroom. The effect was immediate. Conversations died. Heads turned. People parted for Rocco like water, their eyes darting to Evelyn with naked shock.

Margaret Hartwell was mid-sentence with the polite, painfully boring Martin Colby when she spotted them. Her jaw actually dropped.

“Evelyn,” Margaret gasped. “What are you doing?”

“Rocco was just showing me some of the venue’s antique lighting,” Evelyn lied smoothly, her heart pounding.

Martin cleared his throat, looking terrified of the giant beside her. “Ventresca. Nice evening.”

Rocco didn’t look at Martin. He looked at Margaret. “Your daughter has a brilliant eye, Mrs. Hartwell. I’m hoping to hire her for a private restoration project.”

Margaret was too stunned to argue. Evelyn shot Rocco a look of gratitude, but her eyes caught the heavy silver pocket watch he was unconsciously turning in his left hand. The casing was deeply dented, the hinge broken.

“That’s an 1890s Waltham,” Evelyn blurted out, her professional instincts overriding her nerves. “But the casing is custom. European.”

Rocco froze. He looked down at the watch, then at her. The polite, distant mask he wore for the crowd slipped, revealing a flash of raw, unguarded grief.

He popped the broken latch open. He handed it to her.

Evelyn looked down. The glass was shattered. The hands were stopped at 4:12. But it wasn’t the broken face that made her breath hitch. It was the intricate, hidden compartment behind the backing.

Inside was a faded, hand-drawn map.

And at the center of the map was the exact address of Evelyn’s antique workshop.