Ricardo
Chapter Twenty Six
I am speaking with Harold Bexley from the hospital foundation when Julia’s attention moves away from me.
It is subtle. So subtle that most men would miss it.
Her body remains angled toward Patrice. Her smile does not fall. Her hand remains wrapped around the stem of her champagne flute, though she hasn’t taken a sip of it. Patrice is beside her, clipboard in hand, saying something with a small laugh.
But I know her now.
I know the difference between Julia listening and Julia calculating.
Her gaze sharpens past my shoulder, toward the sponsor wall.
I keep my expression attentive while Bexley continues speaking about pediatric expansion, donor matching, and community benefit reports. I hear enough to answer when necessary, but my attention has already shifted to her.
Much like it has all night. That dress is going to ruin my patience before the night is over.
Green silk follows every line of her body and constantly has me thinking about the suite upstairs where she got ready. And about taking the dress off her later.
Slowly.
I want to see it fall around her feet. I want to watch all that composure leave her inch by inch. I want my mouth on every place the silk touched.
Instead, I stand beside a hospital trustee and discuss community partnerships while Julia's attention strays somewhere else.
“Yes,” I say when Bexley pauses. “Send the proposal to Lorenzo’s office. He will review the numbers.”
Bexley smiles, pleased with himself. “Excellent. We are very grateful for the partnership.”
“As are we.”
He thanks me again and moves off toward the children’s hospital chair.
Patrice is already walking away from Julia, clipboard tucked against her side.
Julia remains still.
I step close enough that my shoulder nearly brushes hers.
“What did you see?”
Her eyes do not leave the sponsor wall. “Evan Rusk.”
I search my memory and find basic information
“You know the name?”
“Only a little,” I say. “Tell me more.”
“He’s a development attorney,” she says quietly. “South Harbor land trust work. Calhoun-adjacent, but carefully enough that his name would not mean anything unless you knew where to look.”
Now I look across the room with more interest.
The man beside Owen is in his forties, perhaps early fifties. Sandy hair. Narrow face. Good tuxedo. Easy smile.
After Julia warned Mario about Frank Calhoun, we did what any sensible men in our position would do. We looked. Thoroughly and quietly. We followed the civic funds, the contractor shells, the land trusts, the advisory boards, the respectable front-facing organizations.
Julia had understood the danger before we did.
I do not enjoy admitting that.
I enjoy, even less, knowing how right she was.
Frank Calhoun was worse than a political liability. He was a man who never asked for anything directly unless the answer had already been arranged. A man who let other people carry the documents, sign the checks, take the fall.
And now someone connected to him is standing inside my brother’s gala.
“How did he get it in?” I ask.
“He was a last-minute substitution, apparently,” Julia says quietly. “Patrice said he came in for Jerry Bradshaw. They work out of the same office.”
Across the room, Rusk laughs softly.
Owen does not.
“Stay with me,” I say.
Her eyes cut to mine. “Ricardo.”
“I am not removing you from the conversation,” I say. “I am simply making sure no one removes you from my sight.”
Her mouth tightens, but she does not argue.
She understands enough.
I look across the ballroom and catch Mario’s eye.
He is speaking with Judge O’Brien, which makes the timing unfortunate. Or fortunate, depending on one’s appetite for discomfort. Mario sees my face, then Julia’s, and gives Judge O’Brien a courteous smile that ends the conversation without appearing to do so.
Lorenzo is already moving before Mario reaches us.
That is family.
Mario arrives with Victoria at his side, his expression composed enough that no one nearby would suspect anything has changed.
“What?” he asks.
“Evan Rusk is here,” I say and quickly explain what Julia told me.
Mario’s eyes sharpen by the smallest degree.
Victoria’s hand stills on his arm.
“Where?” Mario asks.
“Sponsor wall,” Julia says. “Speaking with Owen.”
Lorenzo reaches us and turns slightly, casual enough to look as if he has joined a harmless conversation.
“We need to remove him quietly,” he says.
“Not here,” Mario answers.
Julia’s hand tightens around the stem of her glass. “You don’t know what he wants.”
“Exactly,” Mario says. “We need to find out.”
“And if he came here hoping you would react publicly, giving him that would help him.”
Mario’s mouth twitches faintly. “You think I need that explained?”
“No,” Julia says. “But I am nervous, and explaining things gives me something to do.”
Victoria makes a small sound beside Mario, almost a laugh, though there is worry beneath it.
Mario looks at Julia for another second. “Fair.”
Lorenzo shifts his glass to his other hand. “First step is entry chain. Who requested the substitution, when, who approved it, who printed the badge, who cleared him at the door.”
“Get Matteo and Tomasso on it,” Mario says.
I look toward the far side of the room.
Dante stands near the port redevelopment table, speaking with an aide from the commissioner’s office. His tuxedo is perfect. His face is polite. His anger is visible only because I raised him and know exactly what it looks like.
He has barely looked at me tonight.
He has looked at Julia less.
But he is here.
That has to mean something, even if he would deny it.
“Dante knows the South Harbor names,” I say.
Julia goes still beside me.
Mario’s eyes move to mine.
Lorenzo’s expression tightens, but he says nothing.
“Can he do the work tonight?”
The question is not an insult. It is practical.
My son is furious with me. Furious with Julia. Betrayed by both of us. But Dante has and always will put family first.
“Yes,” I say. “He can.”
Mario nods once. “Bring him in.”
“I will.”
Julia’s hand brushes mine.
The touch is small enough no one else sees it.
I feel it everywhere.
Mario turns to Lorenzo. “Find Diego and inform him. I want Edoardo and Alessio in this room with their eyes on him.”
Lorenzo nods and walks away.
Mario touches Victoria’s hand lightly. “Stay with Julia.”
Julia begins to object.
Victoria beats her to it. “Just for the moment.”
Julia exhales through her nose, frustrated, worried, but too smart to turn this into an argument while Rusk stands across the room.
I bend my head slightly. “Do not go near him.”
“I am aware.”
“Julia.”
Her eyes meet mine. “I will not go near him.”
“Thank you.”
“I dislike being managed.”
Despite everything, my mouth nearly curves.
I leave her with Victoria and cross the ballroom toward Dante.
Every step feels too public.
Not every eye in the room is on me, but enough of them are. I am Ricardo Conti. People watch because they want something from me, fear me, or hope to learn something by observing where I place my attention.
Tonight, my attention is on my son.
Dante sees me coming.
His expression changes not one bit, but I feel it close.
The commissioner’s aide is mid-sentence. Dante smiles, says something polished, and excuses himself so smoothly the man seems pleased rather than dismissed.
Only when we are alone near the edge of the table does the mask slip.
“What?”
One word. Flat. Cold.
“We have a problem.”
His eyes move past me.
To Julia.
I see the flicker before he kills it.
“Business problem,” I say and, once again, quickly explain.
His eyes skim past me and move over the man speaking to Owen.
His anger remains, but his attention sharpens.
“How?”
“Substitution for Jerry Bradshaw.”
“Who approved it?”
“That is what I need you to find out.”
“Owen looks ill,” he observes.
“Yes.”
“Does he know who Rusk is?”
“We do not know.”
“Does Julia?”
My jaw tightens.
He hears the silence and looks back at me.
His face hardens.
“She is the one who recognized him.”
“Of course.”
“Dante.”
“No.” His voice stays low, but there is heat beneath it. “No lecture. No fatherly wisdom. No warning about tone. You need something done. I will do it.”
He turns to leave.
“Dante.”
He stops.
I should choose the business. The room. The man by the sponsor wall.
Instead, for one reckless second, I choose my son.
“I know this is difficult.”
His shoulders go rigid.
He turns back just enough for me to see his profile.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
His jaw works.
For a moment, I think he might say something right here, in the middle of the ballroom.
Then he looks toward Julia again.
She stands with Victoria near the edge of the room, green dress catching the chandelier light, spine straight, face pale with worry.
Dante looks away first.
“I’ll get Matteo,” he says. “Tomasso can access hotel security through our team.”
Then he leaves.
It has to be enough for now.
I return to Mario and Julia.
Victoria has not moved from Julia’s side. Good. Julia is still watching Rusk, though she is trying to make it look as if she is watching the room in general.
“Dante is moving,” I tell Mario.
Mario nods once. “Good.”
Across the ballroom, Dante speaks to Matteo near the bar.
Matteo’s expression changes for half a second, then he sets down his glass and pulls his phone from inside his jacket.
Tomasso joins them, listens for less than thirty seconds, then his gaze slides toward Rusk, and away again before it can linger too long.
The gala continues around us.
Music. Laughter. Glasses lifted under gold light. The soft, expensive sound of a room full of people eating well, drinking well, and congratulating themselves on their own accomplishments.
No one knows anything has changed.
That is the art of it.
Rusk remains with Owen near the sponsor wall. He does not appear hurried. He does not look nervous. He is smiling, one hand around his champagne glass, the other occasionally moving as he speaks.
Owen looks worse every time I glance at him.
That tells me something.
It tells me that Owen knows exactly who he's talking to.
Julia’s voice is low beside me. “Owen may not know what he walked into.”
I look down at her.
She is still facing the room, but she is speaking to me.
“You are thinking loudly,” she adds.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“What am I thinking?”
“That Owen looks guilty.”
“He looks frightened.”
“It doesn't negate his guilt.”
A foolish man can be frightened because he has realized too late that the favor he agreed to carry was heavier than promised. A weak man can be frightened because he knows he sold more than he meant to sell. A traitor can be frightened because he has been caught.
The question is which version of Owen stands across the room.
“We will find out,” I say.
Her mouth tightens. “Yeah.”
But she does not like it.
That is in her, too. The instinct to give people one more chance to be better than they are. It should make her vulnerable.
Somehow, in Julia, it makes her sharper.
Mario’s gaze moves over the ballroom with no obvious haste. “Rusk stays comfortable until we are ready.”
“Ready?” Julia asks.
Mario’s attention returns to her.
There is a pause.
It is small, but it exists.
Julia feels it. Her chin lifts.
Mario's eyes meet mine. There's a silent question in them.
I give a barely imperceptible nod. She's stronger than she looks.
“Off-site,” Mario says. “Private.”
Julia gives a small sharp inhale. She knows what that means.
She has figured out long ago who we are.
She does not ask any more questions.
Lorenzo returns then, Diego beside him.
Diego Conti is usually the easiest of my brothers to hear coming. All charm and grins, trouble often close behind. Tonight, in his black tuxedo, he's been roving the room and laying it on thick.
But whatever he might have said dies when he sees Mario’s face. The charm slips back, and his attention sharpens, moving from Mario to me, then to Julia, then across the ballroom.
Mario says, “Edoardo and Alessio?”
“Already moving,” Lorenzo answers. “Edoardo is near the east exit. Alessio is by the staff corridor. Neither obvious.”
“Good.”
Julia’s eyes flick briefly toward me.
She is inside the Conti machine now. She sees the inner workings of the way we operate. Here's us talking about taking a man back to a private place and extracting information from him by any means possible, and not altogether sure he will survive the questioning.
Part of me wants to know whether that frightens her, whether it changes anything for her.
Her fingers tighten around her clutch, but she does not step back.
“We do this once dessert is cleared,” Mario says. “When people start moving. Dancing, bathroom, phone call, smoke, early departure. I do not care which excuse presents itself. We take the opportunity when it comes.”
“And if he stays until the end?” Lorenzo asks.
“Then we create an opportunity.”
“Jeannette Salazar is already looking to leave,” Julia says.
Mario’s gaze follows hers.
“How do you know that?” Diego asks.
“Because she has touched the clasp of her evening bag three times, checked whether her driver texted, and moved her shawl over her arm.” Julia tilts her head slightly.
“She will make her goodbye to the mayor, then to Mario, then she will leave through the main entrance because she wants people to see that she stayed through your remarks but did not linger too long. It's her usual tactic.”
Diego looks at her for a second.
Then he says, “Useful.”
Julia’s mouth twitches, despite everything. “I do try.”
Mario’s gaze moves back to me. “If donors start leaving before we are ready, we adapt.”
“We can let Rusk leave with the early departures,” Lorenzo says. “Easier to separate him once the valet is busy.”
“Or harder,” Julia says.
All of us look at her.
She does not shrink beneath the attention.
“If he came in as a substitution, he may expect you to check the entry chain once you notice him. He may leave early for that reason. If he does, someone is probably waiting for him. Driver, second car, maybe someone watching the valet line.”
Mario studies her. “You think like a politician.”
“That,” she says, “is insulting. But I won't hold it against you.”
He turns toward Diego. “Make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Diego casually walks away, lifting a champagne glass off a roving server’s tray.
“The rest of you,” he says, “mingle.”
I look at Julia.
Her face is pale, but her eyes are determined.
“Stay close,” I say quietly.
This time, she does not argue.
Her hand slips into the crook of my arm, and together, we turn back toward the ballroom, toward the music, toward the smiles, toward the man who still believes he came here unnoticed.