Chapter 72 Pandemonium
Chapter seventy-two
Pandemonium
Marco
Sophia gracefully rises from her seat and I stand too. Far less gracefully, though, piquing her suspicion.
“What are you doing, Marco?” I follow her gaze to Arty as he makes his way back onto the stage, where she needs to be too.
With a hand on her back, I bring my lips closer her ear.
“Pay close attention to the room when you’re up, there, okay.
Follow the movement of anyone who goes to stand, and if they move jerkily or suspiciously, pretend to drop something and get low.
” Confusion and fear swirl across her delicate features, her cheeks slightly pink from the mix of alcohol and the fact Chiara has kept our table highly entertained, mostly at the expense of Raf.
I think she may have even won over Patrick, the only other man who might be a tougher nut to crack.
“Marco, you’re scaring me.”
“Do you trust me?”
She swallows thickly and nods.
“Just do as I say, okay. Stand directly behind the lectern so your entire body is shielded. Drop down behind it if anyone stands or moves suspiciously. As soon as that video starts, get the fuck off that stage and walk straight to my dad. He’s waiting there off stage for you.”
She grasps my hand and gives it a squeeze to tell me she understands, and then she’s striding to the stage.
I hate that it’s her who’s about to risk it all to set in motion the wheels of a runaway train that can’t be stopped.
If I could, I would take her place, but this time, it’s not my battle.
It’s what she’s made for. This is the reason I deprived myself of her and all her goodness for the last six years.
She’s finally found a cause she’s hungry to give her all to, a reason to fight until justice is served.
I take my seat slowly, timing it with the moment Sophia comes to stand fully behind the lectern like I told her.
I put hand over my mouth and talk quietly. “Anything, boys?”
“Negative, boss,” they all chime one after the other.
“Stay calm, son,” my dad reassures, reminding me to keep my emotions in check so I don’t miss the subtleties that might be the tell we’re looking for.
Our team is all ready to pounce at the first sight of suspicious behavior, but finding the fake in a sea of black tuxedos is almost like finding a needle in a haystack.
My heart is pounding so hard in my chest the thumping is deafening.
I scan the room again, table by table, trying to spot the infidel amongst the legitimate guests.
The hum of conversation and the tinkling of glasses and cutlery quiets as Arty steps in next to Sophia to speak.
She does as I instructed and doesn’t give an inch, her body fully behind the wooden lectern.
His words are drowned out by the whooshing sound of adrenaline coursing through my body.
How can this be happening again? I took every single precaution.
Moments earlier, I stepped away from the table to take a call from AJ.
He just got word from an associate that Arty pissed off the Rizzo camp and no longer has their protection, so he took matters into his own hands and snuck a mercenary into the room under the guise of being a guest to protect himself at all costs.
The only identifiable thing AJ was able to find out about him is that he wears a gold pinky ring.
“And now, here’s a video tribute to honor this year’s winner of Partner Of The Year and my co-chair, Arthur Bartholomew Jones,” says Sophia.
“Go, go, go. Get her out of there, Dad,” I command in a hushed whisper into his earpiece.
Sophia steps around Arty, giving him a congratulatory kiss on the cheek and staying in character right to the very end, and then thank fuck she is off stage just as the video is beamed onto every screen in the room, the hiss of static working to pull everyone’s attention and buying time, ensuring Sophia is off the stage before the footage begins to play.
Then it’s showtime. The first frame to flash up is the professional portrait of Arty he commissioned Natalia Hirsch to take.
He’s standing there smiling like the Cheshire cat, totally unaware of the turn this little video montage is about to take.
GG’s smooth voice projects over the hushed room.
“There’s a saying that goes, if it looks too good to be true, it probably is.
” Arty’s smile falters as he nervously looks around the audience, unsure of what to make of the intro but not completely clued in to where it’s going.
The frame changes. The shot Avery got of Arty spiking Sophia’s drink with GHB that night at La Rosa beams out to everyone in the room—a red circle strategically drawn around the baggie so there’s no missing what we’re looking at.
“Another warns that, often, there’s more than meets the eye.” Now we’re looking at an image of him surrounded by girls who might be twenty at best.
“What the fuck is this? This is defamation of character,” Arty stutters furiously into the mic, his face turning an angry shade of red. “Someone stop this fucking madness!”
I’m watching, waiting. But no one is moving, transfixed by drama playing out on the big screen.
The footage continues, and this time a video plays.
It looks like it’s from a college party, maybe eight or so years old.
Arty has his arm wrapped around Arabella Belmont, who looks spaced out.
“I told you to stick with me, baby Belmont. You feel good, don’t you,” he coos coyly, to which Arabella slurs, “What did you put in that drink, Arty?”
The whispering is getting louder all around us. Arty is hollering for someone to turn off the video, storming off the stage and towards the AV booth. But he’s intercepted by his father and pulled towards the exit.
The video cuts to GG sitting in a stark white room, like an interview room at the police station.
“Over recent weeks, we’ve come to understand both adages to be true when pulling back the covers on who the real Arty Bartholomew Jones is. Liar. Bad guy. Sexual predator.
“Don’t believe me? Maybe you’ll believe them.”
And one by one, four of Arty’s victims reveal their truth, sitting in the same stark white room.
“Hi, my name is Ella, and Arthur Bartholomew Jones drugged and sexually assaulted me. I was eighteen.”
“Hi, my name is Maria, and Arthur Bartholomew Jones drugged and sexually assaulted me. I was seventeen.”
“Hi, my name is Lilah, and Arthur Bartholomew Jones drugged and sexually assaulted me. I was seventeen.”
“Hi, my name is Arabella, and Arthur Bartholomew Jones drugged and sexually assaulted me. I was eighteen.”
The room breaks out in gasps.
Luca is up from his seat, glaring at his dad. “I fucking told you. I told you he was fucking scum and he did something to her that weekend. You didn’t fucking believe me. Worst thing about it, she should’ve been with me!” He storms off.
“Oh my God,” Chiara cries, her hands shooting over her mouth in shock. “I need to find her!” Then she’s up on her feet, frantically looking over to the same table Luca was headed toward in search of Arabella. “Chiara, wait!” Sophia lifts the skirt of her dress, ready to follow her.
That’s when I clock him. The tuxedo-clad guy at few tables over who had his back to us the whole time. The guy with the gold pinky ring glinting from the very same hand clutching a gun hanging by his side. Then he turns in his chair and brings the gun into firing position.
It all feels like it happens in slow-motion.
“Down! Sophia, gun, get down!” I yell as I launch myself at her, the deafening crack of the gunshot ringing in my ears, but it’s nothing compared to the searing burn of pain that slices through my side at the same time as I push Sophia out of its path and into Raf, who’s reaching for her.
Pandemonium breaks out. I can sense the chaos of people running and the shouts of my team in my ears.
I want to move, but I’m too heavy. I know there are people around me.
My friends? Family? My vision is blurry, so I can’t make out their faces, only their silhouettes.
My present starts to fade away. My lids want to close, but I need to lay eyes on her first. I’d recognize her face anywhere, in this life and the next.
I’m not sure how much longer I can fight the pull towards the black.
The light is fading. Slowly, but surely.
I hear her voice. It’s tinny but still melodic.
She’s lying on the floor next to me, almost nose to nose, her gorgeous face coming into view through the haze of pain.
“Please, baby, hold on. Don’t leave me,” she sobs.
She’s stroking my hair just the way I like. I need to close my eyes, just for a minute. Then everything fades to black.