Julia
Chapter Twenty Seven
“The rest of you,” Mario says, “mingle.”
So we do.
Ricardo’s hand settles at the small of my back again, warm through green silk, and we turn toward the ballroom as if we are simply returning to the evening.
As if no man near the sponsor wall now has all of our attention.
As if half the Conti family has not just repositioned itself around him like a closing fist.
Music plays. Guests laugh.
A server passes with champagne.
I lift a fresh glass from the tray because it gives my hand something to do, though I still have no intention of drinking it.
Across the ballroom, Evan Rusk continues speaking to Owen as if he belongs here. He laughs at something Owen says. Owen’s mouth moves in response, but the rest of his face looks wrong. Too pale. Too tight. Too aware of the man beside him.
I want to go to him.
That is ridiculous.
I know that. I know Owen may have approved the substitution. I know he may have taken the calls. I know he may have opened a door he had no right to open.
But I also know the look of someone realizing too late that he has made a grave mistake.
Ricardo looks down at me. “Do not.”
“What?”
“Feel sympathy for him.”
“I don't,” I say.
“You are a bad liar.”
“You are very irritating.”
“I have been told.”
“By many women, I assume.”
“Mostly by you.”
Despite myself, I smile.
Then Dante’s gaze catches mine from across the room.
The smile dies as quickly as it forms.
He stands near Matteo and Tomasso, face angled toward his phone, body positioned so he can see Rusk, Owen, the side corridor, and the entrance without seeming to watch any of them. He looks calm. He looks capable.
He looks like someone I used to know better than almost anyone.
Then he looks away.
The space behind my ribs aches.
Ricardo feels the change in me. His fingers still for a second, then his hand lowers from my back.
He is trying.
That makes it worse somehow.
I look toward the hospital tables because it is safer than looking at Dante. Jeannette Salazar is making her first farewell pass, exactly as I predicted. She touches Mario’s arm with the kind of affectionate familiarity reserved for wealthy donors. Mario accepts it with a polite smile.
Victoria stands beside him, serene and beautiful, one hand resting lightly against her stomach. If she is worried, she hides it well.
My parents stand near the far side of the room.
My father is no longer speaking with Deputy Commissioner Wells. He is watching me.
No.
He is watching us.
His eyes move from Ricardo’s face to mine, then to the hand Ricardo has just dropped from my back. My mother says something beside him, her smile still in place, but my father does not look away.
I have seen that expression on him before.
In courtrooms. At charity boards. Across dining tables when he believed I had made a choice he could not correct in public.
He is waiting.
For a mistake. For evidence.
For something to hold against me.
I turn slightly, letting Ricardo’s shoulder block the line of sight.
“Your father?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to speak to him?”
“Absolutely not.”
He looks almost disappointed.
“Ricardo.”
“I said nothing.”
“You look like you want to commit a felony.”
“Only a small one.”
“There are no small felonies where my father is concerned.”
“He hates me already. What could it hurt?”
“All the more reason.”
I glance up to see his smirk. “Do you ever stop?”
“For you? No.”
The answer makes something inside me melt.
His eyes warm, and for one second I remember the suite upstairs. And his mouth against my ear earlier, telling me competence arouses him.
Then Tomasso appears near Ricardo’s left shoulder.
“What?” he asks.
Tomasso keeps his voice casual, like he could be discussing dessert. “Entry chain confirms the substitution. Bradshaw’s office sent the email at 4:17. Owen approved it at 4:26. Badge printed at 5:06. Rusk entered at 7:12.”
Ricardo’s jaw tightens. “Calls?”
“Two to Owen from a number tied to Great Lakes Civic Growth Fund. One yesterday, one this afternoon.”
My stomach sinks.
Owen, you idiot.
“Do we know if Owen answered?” I ask.
Tomasso looks at me. “Both calls connected. Under three minutes each.”
My fingers tighten around the champagne flute.
Ricardo notices and takes it gently from my hand.
I let him.
“Anything else?” Ricardo asks.
“Rusk has stayed public. Sponsor wall, civic development table, a brief greeting near Deputy Commissioner Wells. He has looked this way three times.”
Ricardo’s face changes.
“At whom specifically?”
Tomasso’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Ricardo. “Hard to say. Toward this side of the room.”
Ricardo nods, and Tomasso moves away, still casual.
Ricardo’s eyes return to Owen briefly.
“He might not have known,” I say, not sure why I feel the need to defend him.
“Hmm,” Ricardo merely says.
Mario comes toward us a minute later, alone this time. He has just finished saying goodbye to Jeannette Salazar, who is leaving through the main entrance, after making sure enough people saw her.
“Lorenzo is moving Owen away from the sponsor wall,” he says. “Diego has exterior coverage arranged. Edoardo and Alessio are in position. Matteo and Tomasso are working the hotel security feed with our people.”
“And Dante?” Ricardo asks.
“Still on the entry chain.” Mario’s gaze returns to Ricardo. “You go with Rusk when we move him.”
Ricardo’s head turns. “No.”
The word is immediate, absolute.
Mario does not react. “Yes.”
“Julia—”
“Leaves.”
My stomach drops.
“I can stay,” I say.
Both men look at me.
“I can stay,” I repeat, more firmly. “This is a public room. My parents are here. Half the city is here.”
“Exactly,” Mario says.
I blink. “How is that an argument against me?”
“If Ricardo disappears and you remain in the ballroom alone, people notice.”
“I am capable of standing in a ballroom without Ricardo beside me.”
“I don't doubt it.” Mario’s gaze casually slides over the room, as if observing the fruits of his labor. “You and Ricardo have made your relationship visible tonight. If he leaves suddenly and you stay behind, people will wonder where he went. Your father might wonder the loudest.”
“He can wonder.”
“He can,” Mario agrees. “But I would prefer he didn’t tonight.”
I hate that the logic makes sense.
Ricardo’s voice is low. “I can take her home before dealing with Rusk.”
“No,” Mario says. “It will take too much time.”
Ricardo’s shoulders shift.
It is slight, but I feel the violence of his objection beside me.
Mario’s tone does not change. “You have been running the Calhoun investigation. I want you to take point on this. Dante will take her.”
Everything inside me freezes.
Ricardo turns toward him.
“And he has agreed to this?”
“He has no choice.”
“Dante is barely speaking to me.”
Ricardo’s hand finds mine.
Mario says, “And still, he would walk through fire for you.” He turns to Ricardo. “I would think that would assure you.”
I look across the room before I can stop myself.
Dante stands near the east side, phone in hand, head bent toward Matteo. He says something. Matteo nods and moves away.
Then Dante looks up.
Our eyes meet.
For once, he does not look away immediately.
I cannot read his expression from this distance. Maybe because there is too much there. Maybe because he has shut all of it down before I can see it.
Mario lifts two fingers.
Dante sees and starts heading our way.
“You needed me?” he asks Mario when he’s within earshot.
Mario keeps his voice low. “Ricardo is going with Rusk. Julia needs to leave when he does.”
Dante doesn’t even look at me. He just nods.
No objections. I guess this is what it feels like to be in the Conti inner circle.
What Mario says goes.
“What about my stuff upstairs?”
“It can be collected tomorrow,” Mario simply says.
Ricardo’s entire body rejects this. I can feel it in the air beside him, in the stillness of his hands, in the way his jaw tightens.
“I will walk her out,” Ricardo says tightly, but no outward sign that he objects.
Mario nods. “Yes. You leave the room together.”
Ricardo’s eyes return to him.
Mario’s voice lowers. “People saw you together all night. Let them see you leave together.”
The logic makes sense.
I hate that.
My parents are watching.
Everyone is watching.
If he disappears and I stay behind, I can explain it away that I arranged the event, but there will still be speculation on why he left early. We can't afford that right now.
So we leave together.
Except not really.
Victoria squeezes my arm once, then releases me.
“Text me when you’re home,” she says.
“I will.”
Mario’s attention is already shifting back to the room, back to Rusk, back to every moving piece he has to keep from colliding in public.
Ricardo turns to me.
Everything in his face changes when his eyes find mine. The violence disappears beneath the surface. What remains is concern, reluctance.
“I do not like this,” he says.
“I don’t either.
“If anything feels wrong, you call me.”
“You will be with Rusk.”
“Call me,” he emphasizes.
His hand lifts toward my face, then stops halfway because we are in a ballroom and my father is watching and Dante is standing three feet away with his jaw clenched hard enough to crack.
So Ricardo lowers his hand.
“I will not be far behind you.”
“That sounds physically impossible if you’re going somewhere else.”
His mouth twitches, but there is no humor in it. “Do not make me smile right now. I am trying to be angry.”
Dante looks away.
For one second, guilt burns through me so intensely I almost step back from both of them.
Then Mario’s voice cuts through the moment. “Now.”
Ricardo offers me his arm.
I place my hand in the crook of Ricardo’s arm, and his other hand covers mine for a brief second, warm and firm.
Then we move.
Ricardo walks me through the ballroom with the same unhurried confidence he has carried all evening. I keep my chin level, my face composed, my steps even beneath the fall of the green dress.
We pass everyone, sending waves and smiles as we go. We pass Evan Rusk, even though I pretend I don’t see when his gaze flicks toward us.