Chapter 8 - THE GALA TRAP
We did not go to Pier Seventeen that night.
That was Nico’s plan.
For once, I agreed with it.
Mostly.
Instead, we sent a drone.
Then another.
Then two men by boat.
The pier looked abandoned.
Helen Strauss and Michael Rowan were gone by the time our people arrived.
But they left something behind.
A message painted in white across the inside wall of an old storage building.
NOT SAFE. TRUST THE GIRL.
No one knew which girl.
Nico thought it meant me.
I thought that was narcissistic.
Sofia thought it meant her.
Paige, safely relocated to the Caruso family estate, thought it meant “some terrifying mystery woman who will probably appear in chapter twenty.”
That was why I loved her.
Forty-eight hours passed without another message.
That was worse than constant threats.
Silence gave everyone time to imagine.
By Wednesday, the city had discovered my marriage.
Really discovered it.
Photographs from outside the church spread across social media. Gossip sites resurrected every picture ever taken of me after midnight. Business pages debated whether the marriage represented a Hart-Caruso development alliance.
One headline read:
PARTY PRINCESS MARRIES NEW YORK’S MOST ELIGIBLE BAD BOY.
I sent it to Nico.
He replied:
Bad boy?
I wrote:
Eligible bothers you less?
He did not respond for eleven minutes.
Then:
Both are humiliating.
I smiled in constitutional law class.
Remotely, unfortunately.
Professor Heller noticed.
“Miss Hart, something amusing about equal protection?”
“No, Professor.”
“Then perhaps share your thoughts on the dissent.”
I did.
For seven minutes.
When I finished, he looked irritated.
“Annoyingly correct.”
Best compliment of my academic career.
That afternoon, Nico entered the sitting room while I was reading.
“Tuxedo or dark suit?”
I looked up.
“For what?”
“The Marlowe Foundation gala.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“We’re going?”
“Yes.”
I closed the book.
“Why?”
“Because Sal thinks we’re hiding.”
“We are hiding.”
“He needs to believe we stopped.”
I stared.
“You want to use a charity gala as bait.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds morally questionable.”
“It’s New York philanthropy. We’ll fit in.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
He smiled.
Then I realized what he was suggesting.
“Bait meaning me.”
His smile vanished.
“Us.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
“Nico.”
“You will have six security people within twenty feet of you.”
“So romantic.”
“Eight.”
“That’s worse.”
He sat across from me.
“We need Sal to communicate.”
“Why?”
“Because every message gives us another chance to trace him.”
“And you think he’ll contact us if he sees us publicly?”
“Yes.”
“What about the people at the gala?”
“Security will be doubled. Nobody enters without screening.”
I thought about it.
“There’s another reason.”
He looked annoyed.
I was right.
“What?”
“Your father’s board is attending.”
“Ah.”
“Hart Meridian announces its waterfront financing package Friday.”
“For Pier Seventeen?”
“For the surrounding district.”
“So if Sal wants access, tomorrow is his best chance to pressure my father before the deal.”
“Yes.”
I leaned back.
“And we just happen to appear in front of all the investors together.”
“Yes.”
“Looking happily married.”
His eyes moved over my face.
“Think you can manage?”
“Can you?”
Something shifted between us.
I looked down at my book.
“Fine.”
The Marlowe gala was held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Of course it was.
If New Yorkers were going to lie, threaten one another, and quietly restructure criminal alliances, apparently they preferred doing it beneath priceless art.
I wore dark green.
Not because of the green room.
I told myself that at least six times.
The dress was simple, long, and probably more elegant than anything I had worn in the scandal-page years.
When I came downstairs, Nico was waiting.
He looked at me.
Then kept looking.
I stopped on the last step.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was definitely something.”
He offered his hand.
“You look beautiful.”
The sincerity caught me off guard.
“Thank you.”
His gaze dropped briefly to my wedding ring.
“So do you,” I said.
“I look beautiful?”
“Don’t get emotional.”
He laughed.
Outside, cameras exploded in flashes.
I almost turned back.
Nico felt it.
His hand moved to the small of my back.
“You okay?”
“Ask me when we’re inside.”
He guided me down the steps.
Reporters shouted.
“Evelyn! How did you meet?”
“Nico, is Hart Meridian merging with Caruso Development?”
“Evelyn, are the pregnancy rumors true?”
I stopped.
Nico nearly walked into me.
I turned toward the reporter.
“I’ve been married four days.”
Laughter broke through the crowd.
The reporter shouted back, “So that’s a no?”
“That’s a math lesson.”
Nico put his face near my ear.
“Please keep walking before you adopt the press corps.”
Inside, the gala glittered.
Champagne.
Diamonds.
Politicians pretending they didn’t know businessmen who pretended they didn’t know men like Nico.
I recognized half the room.
Half the room recognized me.
That was the problem with wealthy New York. Nobody was truly anonymous, only temporarily uninteresting.
My father stood near the Temple of Dendur speaking to two investors.
When he saw me, his expression tightened.
He approached.
“You came.”
“Nico says hiding makes us look weak.”
My father glanced at my husband.
“Sometimes hiding keeps you alive.”
“Interesting new philosophy.”
He flinched.
Good.
A photographer asked for a family picture.
I nearly refused.
Then Nico murmured, “Let them.”
We stood together.
My father on one side.
My husband on the other.
A perfect photograph of three people who trusted one another less than strangers.
The flash went off.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
NICE DRESS.
I froze.
Nico saw my face.
“What?”
I showed him.
His hand tightened at my waist.
Another message arrived.
GREEN WAS MARGARET’S COLOR TOO.
My stomach dropped.
“They’re here.”
Nico touched his earpiece.
“Lock entrances quietly.”
I scanned the room.
Hundreds of faces.
Waiters.
Donors.
Security.
Board members.
Anyone.
Another message.
ASK JAMES WHO PAID FOR YOUR MOTHER’S TREATMENT.
I turned toward my father.
He had seen my expression.
“What?”
“Who paid for Mom’s treatment?”
His face changed.
That was answer enough.
“Dad.”
“Not here.”
“Who?”
Nico stepped closer.
My father looked trapped.
“An anonymous foundation covered some experimental treatment costs.”
“Which foundation?”
He said nothing.
I grabbed his arm.
“Which?”
“The Bellamy Foundation.”
I knew the name.
Everyone did.
It funded cancer research and children’s hospitals.
Nico went still.
“What?” I asked.
“The foundation is controlled by Sal.”
Cold spread through me.
My phone buzzed again.
NOW ASK WHY.
I stared at my father.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Liar.”
“I didn’t know it was connected to Sal at the time.”
“But later?”
He looked away.
“When?”
“After she died.”
“And you said nothing?”
“What would it change?”
“Everything!”
Several people looked over.
Nico stepped between me and the crowd.
“Lower your voice.”
I glared.
He leaned close.
“Not because he deserves protection. Because Sal wants you upset.”
I breathed.
Once.
Twice.
He was right.
I hated it.
My phone buzzed.
A photograph appeared.
Taken seconds earlier.
Me, Nico, and my father arguing.
The angle came from above.
I looked up.
Balcony.
A figure moved behind a stone column.
“There.”
Nico turned.
Security reacted instantly.
The figure ran.
I kicked off my heels.
Nico caught my arm.
“Absolutely not.”
“He has answers.”
“He may have a gun.”
“So might half this room.”
“Evelyn.”
I pulled free and ran toward the stairs.
Behind me, Nico swore.
I reached the upper corridor just as a man in a waiter’s jacket disappeared through a service door.
Carlo came from the opposite side.
“Mrs. Caruso, stop.”
“Tell your boss.”
“He’s behind you.”
Of course he was.
Nico caught up, breathing hard but somehow still elegant.
“You are impossible.”
“Later.”
We pushed through the service door.
The corridor beyond was empty.
At the far end, another door slammed.
Carlo ran ahead.
Nico kept me behind him.
We entered a catering prep area.
No waiter.
Only a silver tray on the floor.
And a phone.
My phone rang.
The abandoned phone rang too.
Same time.
Nico answered the one on the floor.
Sal’s voice came through both.
“Beautiful couple.”
Nico’s face turned cold.
“Where are you?”
“Closer than you think.”
“Stop hiding.”
Sal laughed.
“You sound like your father.”
The insult landed.
“Leave Evelyn out of this.”
“I tried. James put her in it before she was born.”
I spoke.
“What did you do to my mother?”
Silence.
For the first time, Sal did not laugh.
“I liked Margaret.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“She was too curious.”
My blood went cold.
Nico reached for the phone.
I held up a hand.
“Did you kill her?”
My voice barely sounded like mine.
Sal sighed.
“No.”
I closed my eyes.
Relief came too fast.
Then he said, “Cancer did what I never had the courage to do.”
Nico’s jaw clenched.
“What did you want from her?”
“The pier.”
“She wouldn’t give it to you.”
“No.”
“So you paid for her treatment.”
“I hoped gratitude might accomplish what fear could not.”
I felt sick.
“It didn’t.”
“No. Margaret Hart was irritatingly principled.”
For some reason, tears burned behind my eyes.
He continued.
“But she made one mistake.”
“What?”
“She trusted Helen.”
A crash sounded in the ballroom.
Then screaming.
Nico turned instantly.
Carlo shouted into his radio.
“Report!”
Static.
Then: “Smoke device. East gallery. No fire.”
A distraction.
I looked at the phone.
Sal had disconnected.
“Why cause panic?” I asked.
Nico’s face changed.
“My father.”
We ran.
The ballroom was chaos.
White smoke drifted near one entrance.
Guests pushed toward exits.
Security tried to contain them.
My father was gone.
I searched.
“Dad!”
Nothing.
Nico grabbed a guard.
“James Hart?”
“Last seen near the west corridor.”
We ran again.
I hated how much running expensive dresses required.
The west corridor opened toward a loading area.
A black sedan accelerated away as we reached the door.
My father’s phone lay shattered on the pavement.
Beside it was his cuff link.
I picked it up.
Nico’s hand settled on my shoulder.
My phone buzzed.
One new video.
My father sat in the back of a moving car.
A man held a gun beside him.
Sal’s voice spoke.
“Twelve hours.”
The camera moved closer.
“Evelyn brings the drive and signs the Pier Seventeen transfer.”
My father looked straight into the lens.
Then he said something I never expected.
“Don’t do it.”
The man beside him struck him hard enough to knock him sideways.
I flinched.
Sal laughed.
“Midnight. Pier Seventeen.”
The video ended.
I stared at the black screen.
My father had traded me for protection.
Threatened me into marriage.
Hidden the truth.
Controlled my life.
And now, when it mattered, he had told me not to trade myself for him.
Nico looked at me.
“We’re not going.”
I wiped one tear from my cheek.
“Yes, we are.”
His jaw tightened.
“This again?”
“No.”
May you like
I looked at my father’s broken cuff link in my palm.
“This time we do it my way.”
