Chapter 3 - THE CHARITY GALA AT BLACKTHORNE HOUSE
The annual Blackthorne Foundation Charity Gala was the social event of the season in New York’s upper crust—a glittering display of obscene wealth, expensive champagne, designer gowns, and high-stakes hypocrisy. Hundreds of politicians, judges, corporate CEOs, and underground kingpins gathered in the grand ballroom, mingling beneath a massive, multi-tiered crystal chandelier that cast sparkling diamonds of light across the polished marble floor.
Upstairs in my small staff room, I zipped up my formal black service dress, pinning my blonde hair into a neat, severe French twist. My stomach was tied in knots. Tonight, the house would be swarming with armed security disguised as waiters and security consultants, and my job was to circulate through the perimeter of the ballroom with a silver tray of champagne flutes, invisible to the powerful men making secret deals in the corners.
The music swelled—a live string quartet playing a soft Vivaldi concerto—as I walked down the grand staircase and took my place near the arched double doors leading out to the terrace.
The air inside was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and underlying tension. I scanned the room, my eyes catching sight of Dominic Mercer standing near the center of the dais. He wore a tailored midnight-blue tuxedo, his broad shoulders and commanding presence effortlessly drawing the attention of everyone around him. He was laughing politely at a joke made by a prominent city district attorney, but his slate-gray eyes never stopped moving, scanning the room with the practiced vigilance of a tactical commander.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, a flash of blue caught my attention.
Caleb.
He had managed to slip away from his nanny, probably taking advantage of the chaotic crowd. He was standing near the edge of the French doors leading out to the dark gardens, holding a small plate of miniature pastries, looking overwhelmed by the noise and the sea of strange faces.
My heart skipped a beat. The gardens were dark, the perimeter gates were unlocked for guest arrivals, and security protocols dictated that no child of Dominic Mercer should ever be left unattended during a public gathering.
I set my silver tray down on a nearby cocktail table and began weaving my way through the crowded room, keeping my head down, making my way toward the French doors.
"Caleb," I whispered softly as I reached him, stepping behind the heavy velvet drapery near the exit. "What are you doing out here? You're supposed to be in the family suite."
The boy jumped, turning around with a guilty look. "It's too loud in there, Mara. Everyone keeps staring at me, and this man in a funny suit told me..." He trailed off, pointing a small finger toward the shadows of the terrace.
My blood ran cold.
My gaze snapped past him, piercing the dim lighting of the terrace doorway.
A man standing near the stone balustrade wasn't wearing a tuxedo. He was wearing a crisp white catering jacket, but his stance was all wrong—too rigid, too balanced, his weight resting on the balls of his feet. And worse, his right hand was hidden inside the deep pocket of his jacket, gripping something heavy and metallic.
Time seemed to stutter, slowing down to an agonizing, visceral crawl.
May you like
I saw the fabric of the pocket tear slightly as a polished black barrel slid into view.
A gun.
