Chapter 2 - THE WALTZ ON BROKEN GLASS
Genevieve did not breathe.
The silk of her mother’s navy gown felt heavy against her ribs.
Lorenzo Costa’s hand remained extended.
His fingers were long, scarred at the knuckles, and entirely steady.
Around them, two hundred guests held their glasses in suspended motion.
The quartet had stopped playing completely.
Charlotte stood two paces away, her face frozen between a smirk and sheer disbelief.
Preston Gable set his champagne flute on a passing silver tray.
The glass gave a sharp, brittle ring against the metal.
“Mr. Costa,” Winston Harrington said, pushing forward through the crowd.
His voice trembled.
Scotch dripped from his cuffs onto the ballroom parquet.
“There must be a mistake.”
Lorenzo did not look at him.
He kept his pale hazel eyes pinned to Genevieve’s face.
“I don’t make mistakes with seven figures, Harrington.”
The words were quiet.
They carried to the back corners of the room.
Genevieve swallowed the dryness in her throat.
Her heart hammered against her breastbone like a trapped bird.
“I didn’t alter your books, Mr. Costa.”
“You did.”
His voice was smooth as polished granite.
“And you did it well.”
He stepped forward, closing the remaining distance between them.
The scent of cold winter air and cedarwood rolled off his dark wool coat.
He took her right hand.
His palm was warm.
Her fingers were freezing.
With effortless grace, he drew her onto the empty center of the dance floor.
He signaled the quartet with two fingers.
The first violinist lifted her bow as if pulled by an invisible string.
A slow, haunting waltz rose toward the gilded ceiling.
Genevieve’s feet moved by instinct.
Years of stiff, mandatory cotillion lessons took over her body.
Lorenzo’s hand settled at the small of her back.
It was firm.
Protective, yet suffocatingly close.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured.
“You just accused me of grand larceny in front of Manhattan society.”
“I accused you of competence.”
A faint flicker of amusement touched the corner of his scarred jaw.
“Competence is far more dangerous.”
She glanced over his shoulder.
Charlotte stood beside their father.
Her crimson dress seemed to burn under the chandelier light.
Her eyes were narrowed into venomous slits.
Winston was whispering frantically into his phone, his hand covering his mouth.
“My father hired an independent auditor three weeks ago,” Genevieve whispered.
“I know.”
“He told me to prepare the summary reports.”
“I know that too.”
“Then you know I flagged the discrepancies,” she said, her voice dropping.
“Three million dollars moved through shell companies in Delaware.”
“The accounts had your logistics stamp on them.”
Lorenzo guided her through a seamless turn.
The hem she had carefully sewn held firm against her ankles.
“My stamp,” Lorenzo said softly, “was stolen from Pier 19 in October.”
Genevieve’s breath caught.
“Your father didn’t borrow that money from me, Genevieve.”
“He embezzled it from my union pension funds.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Her father had not simply borrowed from a loan shark.
He had stolen from the Costa syndicate.
“And he put your electronic signature on every transfer,” Lorenzo added.
Cold dread cascaded down her spine.
Winston had not brought her tonight for family photographs.
He had brought her as collateral.
A scapegoat.
A sacrificial lamb dressed in her dead mother’s mended gown.
“Why are you telling me this on a dance floor?”
Lorenzo’s hazel eyes locked onto hers with terrifying clarity.
“Because in thirty seconds, my men are shutting down the power in this hotel.”
Her pulse spiked.
“What?”
“Your father sold the second half of that ledger to Preston Gable tonight.”
“Gable’s father sits on the maritime regulatory board.”
“They intend to arrest you before midnight to bury the paper trail.”
“Me?”
“You are the author of record on the books, little bird.”
Lorenzo pulled her flush against his chest as the waltz reached its crescendo.
His breath brushed her temple.
“You have two choices, Genevieve.”
“Stay here and let your family feed you to federal prosecutors.”
“Or walk out of that door on my arm.”
Genevieve looked at Charlotte.
Her sister was watching her with a cruel, triumphant sneer.
She looked at Winston.
Her father wouldn't meet her eyes.
He had never looked at her since her mother died.
Genevieve tightened her fingers around Lorenzo’s lapel.
“Take me with you,” she whispered.
May you like
Every light in the Pierre went black.
A split second later, the heavy glass of the ballroom windows shattered inward with a deafening roar.
