Chapter 2 - The Bullet That Hit the Dress.
Julian stopped three feet from Emma.
Up close, he looked even less like a man who should have been discussing evening gowns.
There was a faint cut near his right temple. The dark stain on his cuff was fresh. His eyes moved once over her face, the garment bag, the sewing case, then toward the private elevator behind her.
“You came alone.”
It was not a question.
Emma folded her arms.
“That usually happens when a client wants emergency alterations at midnight and refuses to give the agency a useful contact name.”
One of the men near the kitchen shifted.
Julian looked at him.
“Roth Events sent her through the private elevator?”
The man checked a tablet.
“They sent the access code to the courier listed on the work order.”
“I’m not a courier,” Emma said.
Julian’s gaze returned to her.
“Apparently tonight you are.”
“No. Tonight I’m the person preventing somebody’s twelve-thousand-dollar dress from becoming a very expensive towel.”
The tiny movement returned near his mouth.
Not a smile.
Close.
“Open it.”
Emma stared.
“The garment bag?”
“Yes.”
“You could say please.”
The room went completely still.
Julian considered her.
“Please.”
That caused more surprise than if he had shouted.
Emma unzipped the black garment bag.
The gown inside was silver silk crepe covered in hand-set crystals that caught the low light like water.
Beautiful.
Expensive.
And badly damaged along the side seam.
The zipper had separated from the fabric for almost six inches.
Emma lifted it carefully.
“There. That’s the emergency.”
Julian touched nothing.
“Celeste March was supposed to bring it.”
Emma recognized the name.
Of course.
Celeste March.
Magazine covers.
Luxury campaigns.
One of those women whose airport clothes were photographed like public policy.
“I’m definitely not Celeste March.”
“I noticed.”
“Kindly.”
Julian ignored that.
“Why didn’t she come?”
“I don’t know. Roth Events called the alterations desk where I freelance. They said the model had been delayed and the dress needed to reach this address before midnight.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed.
“Who gave you the address?”
“Vanessa Roth’s assistant.”
“What name?”
“Lila. Maybe Lina.”
One of the security men spoke.
“There is no Lila or Lina on Roth’s current staff.”
Emma looked at him.
“That sounds like your problem.”
Then the window exploded.
The sound came first.
A hard, violent crack.
Not from the gun.
From glass.
Julian moved before Emma understood what had happened.
His arm struck across her waist and drove her down behind the marble island.
The garment bag fell.
Crystals flashed.
A second shot punched through the floor-to-ceiling window.
This one hit the garment bag.
Emma heard fabric tear.
Someone shouted.
Lights died.
Not all of them.
Emergency strips along the floor turned the penthouse blood-red.
“Down,” Julian said.
“I am down.”
“Lower.”
“There is literally floor beneath me.”
His hand pressed between her shoulder blades.
A third shot struck marble above them.
Stone dust sprayed.
Emma stopped arguing.
The six men moved with terrifying precision.
Two crossed toward the window line.
One pulled blackout panels from a recessed wall.
Another disappeared toward a service corridor.
Nobody fired back through the glass.
Smart, Emma thought wildly.
At least somebody in the room understood forty-seven floors and unknown trajectories.
Julian’s body remained partly over hers until the blackout panel sealed the windows.
Then he moved.
“Emma.”
She stared.
“What?”
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
“Check.”
“I would know.”
“Check.”
She looked down.
No blood.
Hands shaking.
Knees intact.
One crystal from the dress had embedded itself in the sleeve of her coat.
“I’m fine.”
Julian looked at her for one second longer.
Then at the dress.
The bullet had torn through the lower bodice.
Emma’s professional brain reacted before the rest of her.
“Oh, come on.”
Julian stared.
She pointed.
“That is not repairable by midnight.”
One of the security men actually laughed.
Julian looked at him.
He stopped.
Then Julian picked up the garment bag.
A small metallic object dropped from inside the torn lining.
Not a crystal.
Not a zipper piece.
A brass capsule no longer than Emma’s little finger.
Everyone saw it.
Nobody moved.
Julian’s face changed.
“Marco.”
The broad man nearest the hallway stepped forward.
Head of security, apparently.
He wore no expression.
Julian pointed at the capsule.
“Do not touch it.”
Emma’s stomach dropped.
“What is that?”
Julian looked at her.
“You tell me.”
“I repair clothes. I don’t install ammunition.”
“It is not ammunition.”
“Wonderful. That really narrows things.”
Marco pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and crouched without touching the capsule.
“There’s a seam.”
Julian’s jaw tightened.
“Memory storage?”
“Possibly.”
Emma stared at the silver gown.
“I had that thing open on my table for three hours.”
Julian turned.
“What exactly did you repair?”
“The zipper.”
“Did you open the lining?”
“Not until I had to reinforce the side seam.”
“Which side?”
She pointed.
“The side that just got shot.”
Everyone went quiet.
Julian’s eyes sharpened.
“Did you see the capsule?”
“No.”
“Did you see anything unusual?”
Emma started to answer.
Stopped.
There had been something.
A line of black hand stitching beneath the silver lining.
Not couture finishing.
Too crude.
Too new.
She had assumed another emergency tailor had reinforced it.
“I saw stitches.”
“What kind?”
“Black thread. Hand done. About two inches.”
“Where?”
She pointed to the torn lining.
Marco looked.
“Here.”
The bullet had cut directly through that section.
Not Julian.
Not Emma’s head.
The gown.
Emma felt cold.
“Someone shot at a dress.”
Julian’s face remained still.
“Maybe.”
“No. First bullet broke glass. Second hit the bag. Third hit where you pulled me.”
Julian looked at her differently.
Not as seamstress.
Not as accidental visitor.
As someone who noticed sequence.
Marco said, “Shooter may have been correcting.”
“Or targeting the carrier,” Julian replied.
Emma stared.
“Carrier.”
“You.”
“No.”
Julian looked at the garment bag.
“Someone arranged for you to bring that gown.”
“I accepted a job.”
“Using false staff credentials.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
“Then stop saying carrier like I volunteered to smuggle state secrets in sequins.”
Julian’s eyes met hers.
“I am not accusing you.”
“It sounds remarkably similar.”
Marco’s phone buzzed.
He listened.
“Shooter likely from the east tower construction floors. Team is moving.”
“Police?”
“Already notified by building security.”
Julian nodded.
Emma noticed that.
No argument.
No private clean-up.
At least not yet.
She pushed herself up.
“My phone.”
Julian caught her wrist.
Not hard.
Immediate.
“No.”
Emma looked at his hand.
Then at him.
He released her.
Good.
“What?”
“Do not stand near the glass line.”
“The panels are closed.”
“We do not know whether there is a second angle.”
Emma hated that he was right.
She crawled sideways toward her purse.
Julian moved with her.
“I can get it.”
“I can get my own phone.”
“Emma.”
She froze.
The way he said her name had changed.
No impatience.
Concern.
That was somehow more unnerving.
She reached the purse.
Her screen showed seven missed calls.
All from one unknown number.
Then a text.
DO NOT GIVE VESCARI THE DRESS.
Her blood went cold.
Julian saw her face.
“What?”
She turned the screen.
He read.
Marco moved closer.
Another message arrived.
YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO LEAVE IT AND GO.
Emma’s mouth went dry.
Julian’s expression became very still.
“Who has your number?”
“My mother. clients. half of Manhattan if they’ve ever needed pants hemmed.”
“Work order?”
“Had my number.”
“Who assigned you?”
“The shop manager called me.”
“Name.”
“Priya Desai.”
“Call her.”
Emma did.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Her breathing changed.
Julian noticed.
“When did you last speak to her?”
“Ten forty.”
“What did she say exactly?”
“That Roth Events had a gown emergency. Triple rate. Private delivery. Cash tip likely.”
“How much were you being paid?”
“Three hundred.”
Julian stared.
“For three hours of repair and delivery.”
“Yes.”
“That was enough to get you here.”
Emma’s spine stiffened.
“I have fourteen dollars in my checking account. So yes.”
The words came out sharper than intended.
Silence.
Julian’s face changed slightly.
Not pity.
Good.
She hated pity.
Another phone buzzed.
Marco answered.
His eyes hardened.
“What?”
Julian asked.
Marco looked at Emma.
“Priya Desai’s shop is empty.”
Emma’s stomach dropped.
“What do you mean empty?”
“Security team reached it. Front door unlocked. Lights on. No staff.”
“She was there when I left.”
“Cameras?”
Marco looked at Julian.
“Disabled at 10:52.”
Emma stared.
“After I left.”
“Yes.”
Julian stood.
Pain?
No.
He moved normally.
The blood on his cuff suddenly returned to Emma’s attention.
“What happened to your hand?”
He looked down.
“Nothing.”
“That is blood.”
“Not mine.”
Fantastic.
Emma grabbed her sewing kit.
“I’m leaving.”
Julian’s expression changed.
“No.”
Her fear turned instantly into anger.
“Excuse me?”
“You are not walking out of this building alone.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“Someone just fired through my window while you were holding an object hidden in a gown.”
“Then I’ll call the police.”
“Yes.”
She paused.
“Yes?”
Julian nodded.
“You should.”
That threw her.
He continued.
“But until we know whether whoever arranged this expects you to be carrying that capsule, you do not leave without protection.”
“I did not ask for protection.”
“I am asking you to accept it.”
Better phrasing.
Still infuriating.
Emma looked at Marco.
“Who are these people?”
Marco said, “Security.”
“His security.”
“Yes.”
“Which is not the same as police.”
“No.”
Emma picked up her phone.
“Then police first.”
Julian nodded.
“Agreed.”
She stared at him.
“You’re surprisingly reasonable for a man whose Wikipedia page probably has a controversy section longer than my tax return.”
Marco looked down.
Julian almost smiled.
Then the lights came back.
Full illumination.
The silver gown lay across the marble like something wounded.
Marco used an evidence bag to cover the brass capsule without touching it directly.
Emma stared.
“What happens now?”
Julian looked at the gown.
“We find out why someone hid that inside the dress.”
“And why they sent me.”
“Yes.”
“And what happened to Priya.”
“Yes.”
Emma’s chest tightened.
Priya had given her work when nobody else did.
Had let her use the shop machines after hours.
Had loaned her fifty dollars once and pretended it was an accounting error.
“Find her.”
Julian’s gaze held hers.
“I will help.”
“Not the same thing.”
“No.”
He corrected.
“We will give police everything we have and look for her without interfering.”
Emma blinked.
“You practice sounding legal?”
“Recently.”
Marco’s mouth twitched.
Julian ignored him.
Police arrived twelve minutes later.
Not uniforms first.
Detectives.
Building security.
Crime-scene technicians.
Questions.
Emma answered all of them.
So did Julian.
Not every question about his business.
His lawyer appeared in eleven minutes and began objecting selectively.
There it was.
The real world.
Messier than cooperation theater.
The brass capsule contained a microSD card.
Police took custody.
The gown became evidence.
Emma’s sewing kit too because fibers might matter.
That annoyed her more than it should have.
At 2:18 a.m., a detective named Claire Donovan told Emma she could leave.
Julian stood near the elevator.
His jacket was gone.
White shirt.
Bloodstained cuff still visible.
Emma looked at the detective.
“Am I in danger?”
Claire did not soften the answer.
“Possibly.”
“Great.”
“We can arrange a patrol check at your address.”
Julian said, “She should not go home.”
Emma turned.
“I am standing here.”
Claire looked at him.
“Mr. Vescari.”
He stopped.
Good.
Emma said, “Why not?”
Julian answered her.
“Whoever sent you knows your number, your workplace, and where the gown was going.”
“That does not mean they know my apartment.”
“Maybe not.”
Detective Claire said, “He is not wrong.”
Emma stared at both of them.
“Wonderful. The law and organized crime have found consensus.”
Claire almost smiled.
“Do you have somewhere else to stay?”
“My sister is in Queens with two kids.”
“Do not go there tonight,” Julian said.
Emma glared.
Claire nodded.
“Also reasonable.”
Emma sighed.
Hotel.
She could not afford one.
Julian saw the calculation.
“I’ll pay.”
“No.”
“Then the police victim-assistance unit can arrange one.”
Claire said, “Possibly, but not at this hour without paperwork.”
Julian looked at Emma.
Not smug.
Just waiting.
She hated that more.
“I’ll repay you.”
“No.”
“Then I’m not taking it.”
He considered.
“Fine.”
“What?”
“You can repair something.”
Emma stared.
“What?”
“One jacket. Market rate. Hotel equals advance payment.”
“That is absurd.”
“Yes.”
Claire rubbed her forehead.
“I am going to pretend this is not happening.”
Emma looked at Julian.
“One jacket.”
“One.”
“No five-thousand-dollar Italian nonsense with hand-beaded lapels.”
“I own no hand-beaded lapels.”
“Good.”
Marco murmured, “Not anymore.”
Julian looked at him.
Emma almost laughed.
That was the moment the tension cracked.
Only slightly.
Enough to breathe.
She accepted the hotel.
Not because Julian ordered.
Because going home was stupid.
At the elevator, he walked beside her.
Emma frowned.
“Where are you going?”
“Down.”
“Why?”
“To the car.”
“I thought Marco was assigning security.”
“He is.”
“So?”
Julian pressed the elevator button.
“You walked into my penthouse because someone lied to you. Someone fired at you because of something hidden in a dress meant for me.”
“For Celeste.”
His face changed.
“No.”
Emma stopped.
“What?”
“The gown was never for Celeste.”
Cold moved through her.
“But you said—”
“She was supposed to arrive.”
“Yes.”
“To model a different dress.”
Emma stared.
Julian continued.
“The silver gown was not on tonight’s wardrobe list.”
The elevator opened.
Nobody moved.
Emma looked back toward the evidence technicians.
“The agency lied.”
“Yes.”
“Priya was tricked.”
“Maybe.”
“And whoever sent me knew you would recognize that something was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“Then why send me?”
Julian’s expression became grim.
“That is the question.”
Emma stepped into the elevator.
Julian followed.
The doors closed.
She looked at him.
“You’re still not walking me to the car.”
His eyes stayed forward.
“Yes, I am.”
“Why?”
The elevator descended.
Julian answered without looking at her.
“Because whoever fired through that window now knows your face.”
Emma felt the number fourteen dollars in her bank account become suddenly irrelevant.
For the first time that night, she understood the job had never been about a broken zipper.
May you like
And Julian Vescari understood something too.
The seamstress he had mistaken for a scheduling error had just become evidence someone wanted removed.
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