Chapter 1 - The Waltz of the Condemned
The ballroom hummed with artificial grace, a symphony of forced laughter and expensive perfume masking the cold, calculating ambitions beneath. Dominic Russo pulled Beatrice closer as the second movement of the waltz swept them toward the center of the polished marble floor.
"You're watching the doors more than you're watching me," Beatrice murmured, her voice steady and pitched low enough to be lost in the string quartet's crescendo.
Dominic's steps faltered for a fraction of a second—a micro-movement that only a trained eye would catch. He looked down at her. Up close, her hazel eyes held a depth that unnerved him. There was no flutter of nervous excitement, no blushing compliance that he was accustomed to from women who found themselves pulled into his orbit. There was only absolute, terrifying clarity.
"You have keen eyes for someone who spends her nights hiding near the palms," Dominic replied, his deep voice carrying a warning edge.
"I don't hide, Mr. Russo. I observe," she replied calmly, her gloved hand resting lightly against his charcoal lapel. "And right now, your friend Mateo isn't the only one watching you. Check the second-tier balcony, sector four. The man with the wire-rimmed glasses and the silver lapel pin. He isn't clapping."
Dominic didn't turn his head. He didn't need to. His peripheral vision had tracked that balcony five minutes ago. But Beatrice had pinpointed the exact sector without breaking the rhythm of her footwork.
"And why should I care about a man with a silver lapel pin?" Dominic asked, sliding his hand lower along her waist to guide her through a sharp pivot.
"Because he's not with the caterers, and he's not an investor," Beatrice said, her breath brushing his collar as they turned. "He’s wearing a tailored Italian suit, yet his left shoulder is riding three inches higher than his right. He’s concealing a suppressed HK MP5-K beneath a bespoke wool overcoat. And worse—he adjusted his grip twice during the transition from the C-minor chord."
Dominic froze mid-step.
The description was too precise. Too clinical.
"Who the hell are you?" Dominic demanded, his grip tightening around her waist until it bordered on painful.
Beatrice didn't flinch. She simply looked up, her expression hardening into something dangerous. "Someone who is about to save your life, Dominic. Now dip me. Hard. And do it right fucking now."
Instinct—honed by a decade at the top of Chicago’s underworld—overrode his confusion. Dominic dropped his weight, sweeping Beatrice down in a dramatic theatrical dip.
CRACK-CRACK.
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The deafening reports of suppressed gunfire shattered the crystal chandelier directly above where they had been standing a second prior. Razor-sharp shards of leaded glass rained down onto the marble floor like a deadly diamond storm, burying themselves deep into the spot where Dominic's chest had just been.
Screams erupted across the ballroom.
