Chapter 1 - THE BULLET IN THE GLASS
Julian walked toward her.
Not fast.
That somehow made it worse.
Emma had met angry men before.
Tailors meet men at weddings, fittings, backstage dressing rooms, hotel suites, and emergency fashion disasters. Men become strange around expensive clothes because expensive clothes make them feel like money can control the body underneath.
Julian Vescari did not look angry.
He looked like a man comparing one fact to another and deciding which one was lying.
He stopped three feet away.
“Roth Events sent you.”
“Yes.”
“To repair a gown.”
“Yes.”
“You came alone.”
Emma looked at the six men.
“Apparently that was optimistic.”
One of them looked down.
Julian’s gaze flicked toward him.
The smile vanished.
Emma sighed.
“Do your employees get dental coverage for biting the inside of their cheeks?”
That almost did it.
Julian’s mouth moved.
Then he looked at the garment bag.
“Open it.”
Emma narrowed her eyes.
“Ask.”
Silence.
The room changed.
Not dramatically.
But every man in it noticed.
Julian did too.
For one long second, Emma wondered whether she had just become the first seamstress in Manhattan to die over grammar.
Then he said:
“Please open it.”
“Better.”
She unzipped the bag.
Silver silk.
Hand-beaded.
A column gown that probably cost more than her annual rent.
The damage was ugly.
The hidden back zipper had split from the seam about seven inches below the top, taking a narrow section of silk with it.
Someone had forced it while the wearer was inside.
Emma touched the torn edge.
“Who wore this?”
Julian answered:
“No one.”
“That’s not what the fabric says.”
His eyes sharpened.
Emma held the gown up.
“See the stress here?”
He stepped closer.
“Someone pulled the zipper while there was pressure inside the dress. It didn’t fail on a hanger.”
Julian looked at one of the men.
“Where is Celeste?”
The man said:
“Guest room. Changing.”
Emma blinked.
“So someone did wear it.”
Julian’s expression went flat.
“She tried it on. It broke.”
“Then why did you say no one?”
“I meant no one wore it out.”
“Words matter.”
His gaze landed on her again.
“Yes.”
There was something almost amused in the answer.
Emma laid the gown flat over the back of a chaise.
“Who is Celeste?”
Julian said nothing.
One of the men answered:
“Ms. Bianchi.”
Julian looked toward him.
The man froze.
Emma had heard the name.
Celeste Bianchi.
International model.
Fashion campaigns.
Billboards in SoHo.
One of those faces that made skincare companies believe pores were a moral failing.
Emma looked at Julian.
“The supermodel you ordered.”
“Yes.”
“Terrible phrasing.”
“I’m beginning to understand that.”
“Good.”
Then she got to work.
The room remained tense around her.
Needle.
Thread.
Seam tape.
Temporary reinforcement.
Microstitches where the beading would hide them.
Replacement zipper from her kit.
Her hands stopped shaking once the fabric was under them.
Fabric behaved.
People did not.
Ten minutes in, Celeste Bianchi appeared from the hall wearing black trousers and a silk camisole.
She was taller than Emma by nearly a foot in heels.
Beautiful.
Barefaced.
Angry.
And there was a red mark on one shoulder.
Not an injury.
A fitting mark from the gown strap perhaps.
Celeste looked at the dress.
“Can she fix it?”
Emma answered:
“Yes.”
Celeste looked at her.
“Thank God.”
No diva.
Just tired.
Julian said:
“You were supposed to leave at midnight.”
“I know.”
“Press line starts at twelve fifteen.”
“I know.”
“You’re late.”
Celeste’s face hardened.
“My zipper exploded because Roth sent the wrong understructure.”
Emma looked up.
“What understructure?”
Celeste pointed toward a white corset garment on a chair.
Emma crossed the room.
Examined it.
Wrong size.
Two inches too small at the waist.
“Did Roth send this?”
“Yes.”
Emma looked at Julian.
“The gown didn’t fail. The styling package did.”
Celeste said:
“I told them.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed.
“Who?”
“Marina. Roth wardrobe coordinator.”
Emma knew Marina Vale.
Everyone in emergency alterations knew Marina.
Fast.
Precise.
Overworked.
Not careless.
Interesting.
Emma said:
“Marina would not send the wrong foundation garment.”
Celeste looked at her.
“You know her?”
“Enough.”
Julian turned.
“To what extent?”
Emma stared.
“What am I, under oath?”
A man near the window said quietly:
“Boss.”
Julian turned.
Too late.
The glass behind Celeste burst.
The sound came after.
A flat crack.
Then the floor-to-ceiling window exploded inward in a sheet of glittering fragments.
Julian moved before Emma understood.
He hit Celeste sideways.
One security man shoved Emma down.
Another shot tore through the edge of the chaise where Emma’s hand had been.
Someone yelled:
“DOWN!”
Emma hit marble hard on one knee.
The sewing kit scattered.
Needles.
Scissors.
Pins.
Julian covered Celeste behind the black sofa.
Two guards drew weapons.
Another dragged Emma behind a marble column.
A second bullet punched through glass.
Not random.
Too high.
Too precise.
The room lights went dark.
Emergency lights came on red.
Emma heard Julian:
“North roof?”
A voice:
“Unknown.”
“South?”
“Scanning.”
“Get Celeste to core.”
“Move.”
Emma twisted.
“My bag.”
The guard stared.
“What?”
“My sewing bag.”
“Ma’am, bullets.”
“It has my phone.”
He swore.
Julian’s voice came from darkness:
“Leave it.”
Emma snapped:
“I have fourteen dollars in my account. I am not replacing that phone.”
Silence.
Then the guard laughed once.
Actually laughed.
“Ma’am—”
A third shot hit.
This one struck the wall near the guest hall.
The shooter was walking fire across the penthouse.
Not necessarily trying to kill one person.
Testing angles.
Julian said:
“Now.”
The guards moved.
Celeste disappeared toward an interior corridor.
Emma was hauled with them.
She hated being touched.
“Let go.”
The guard said:
“No.”
Emma dug in her heels.
“Let go or I break your thumb.”
He stared.
Julian turned.
“Marco.”
The guard released.
Good.
Emma followed under her own power.
They entered an interior room with no windows.
Security safe room.
Steel door.
Concrete core.
Cell signal blocked.
Julian entered last.
The door shut.
Ten people breathed.
No one spoke for five seconds.
Then Emma realized one man was bleeding.
Not Julian.
The younger guard from the kitchen.
Glass had cut his neck near the collarbone.
Not arterial.
But bleeding.
Emma grabbed a clean linen napkin from a side console.
“Hold pressure.”
He looked at Julian.
Emma snapped:
“Do not look at him. Look at me.”
The guard obeyed.
Good.
Julian watched.
Emma pressed the folded cloth.
“Not hard enough to choke yourself.”
“I know.”
“Apparently not.”
Celeste sat on a bench.
Her hands shook.
Julian crouched in front of her.
“Hit?”
“No.”
“Glass?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
He believed her.
No grabbing.
Good.
Then he looked at Emma.
“Knee.”
She glanced down.
Blood through black tights.
Probably cut from glass.
“Fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“So is he.”
Julian stood.
“Doctor’s coming.”
“Great.”
Then he pulled a handset from a secured wall cabinet.
“Report.”
A voice from security operations:
“Three shots confirmed. Origin likely roofline across Fifty-Third. Shooter departed before counter-team reached visual. NYPD notified through liaison. Building lockdown active.”
Good.
Police.
Not only private retaliation.
Julian asked:
“Any casualty?”
“None confirmed.”
“Street?”
“Clear.”
Then:
“Roth team?”
Pause.
“Roth Events car left basement eleven minutes before first shot.”
Julian’s face changed.
Emma noticed.
“What?”
No one answered.
She said:
“What?”
Julian looked.
“The Roth wardrobe driver who brought Celeste left before the repair was complete.”
Emma’s stomach tightened.
“Maybe his shift ended.”
“Maybe.”
Good.
Then security continued:
“Ms. Bianchi’s regular stylist is unreachable. Roth coordinator Marina Vale has not checked in.”
Emma’s blood went cold.
“Marina?”
Julian looked at her.
“You know her well enough to worry?”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“She got me this job.”
Silence.
There.
Julian’s eyes sharpened.
“Explain.”
Emma breathed.
“Roth called me at ten thirty. Emergency alteration. Triple rate. Marina texted me directly fifteen minutes later: ‘Take it. They need someone calm.’”
“Show me.”
“My phone is under a window someone keeps shooting.”
Julian looked at Marco.
Marco opened his mouth.
Julian cut him off.
“When safe.”
Good.
Then Celeste said:
“Marina was supposed to be here.”
Everyone turned.
“What?” Julian asked.
“She was doing final styling.”
“Why wasn’t she?”
“She texted twenty minutes before call time. Said Roth changed staffing.”
Emma’s stomach dropped.
“Did that sound like her?”
“No.”
There.
Then the safe-room phone rang.
Security answered.
Listened.
Face changed.
“Boss.”
Julian took it.
“Yes.”
Pause.
His eyes went flat.
“When?”
Another pause.
“Alive?”
Emma stopped breathing.
Julian looked directly at her.
Then at Celeste.
He lowered the phone.
“Marina Vale was found unconscious in a service stairwell at Roth’s Midtown storage facility.”
Emma’s hand went to her mouth.
“Is she alive?”
“Yes.”
“Hospital?”
“Bellevue.”
“What happened?”
“Head trauma. No wallet. No phone.”
The room went silent.
Then Julian said:
“This was not a fashion mistake.”
Emma’s stomach dropped.
No.
It was not.
And the silver gown suddenly looked less like an emergency alteration and more like a message nobody in the room knew how to read yet.
Emma looked down at her bloodied knee, at the single straight pin still caught in the cuff of her sleeve, and understood something else.
May you like
She had entered the penthouse thinking the dangerous man was obvious.
Now she was no longer sure danger had been standing in front of her at all.
