Chapter 7 - The Gala of Knives
The grand foyer of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was a dazzling sea of black tuxedos, glittering diamonds, and champagne flutes. Flashbulbs went off in blinding rhythms along the red carpet outside, where New York's elite mingled under the guise of philanthropy.
When the black armored limousine pulled up to the grand steps, the paparazzi surged against the velvet ropes.
The chauffeur opened the door. Victor Moretti stepped out, towering and immaculate in a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo. He turned and offered his hand.
Adriana Blake stepped into the flashing lights.
The emerald green silk hugged every curve of her body, flowing like liquid water down to her heels. Her dark hair was swept up into an elegant, deliberate updo, exposing the graceful line of her neck and shoulders. But it was her eyes that stopped the press in their tracks—sharp, composed, and completely unintimidated by the chaos.
A collective murmur rippled through the press corps.
“Who is she?”
“Where is Vasquez?”
“Is that Moretti’s new partner?”
Victor placed his hand securely on the small of Adriana’s back, guiding her up the grand stone staircase. His touch was warm, possessive, and reassuring.
“You’re doing magnificent,” he murmured leaning down, his lips brushing the edge of her ear.
“I’m pretending every camera out here has an amateur behind it,” Adriana whispered back, maintaining a stunning, enigmatic smile for the photographers. “It helps my superiority complex.”
Victor’s chest rumbled with suppressed laughter as they crossed into the Great Hall.
Instantly, the atmosphere shifted. Across the cavernous room, standing near a towering Roman marble sculpture, were Lorenzo Voss and District Attorney Raymond Vance.
Lorenzo was mid-laugh, holding a glass of champagne, when his eyes locked onto Victor and Adriana.
The color drained from the traitor’s face in a split second. His champagne glass tilted slightly, almost spilling onto his cuff.
“Look at his posture,” Adriana whispered, her eyes tracking Lorenzo without turning her head. “Weight shifted to his back foot. Shoulders tense. He looks like a man who just saw a ghost carrying his death warrant.”
“Because he did,” Victor replied coldly.
Vance noticed the shift and turned, his smug political smile freezing as Victor and Adriana strode directly toward them through the parting crowd of socialites.
“Lorenzo,” Victor greeted, his voice smooth as silk and twice as deadly. “Raymond. What a remarkable turnout tonight.”
Lorenzo swallowed hard, forcing a tight, nervous grin. “Victor. We... we didn't expect you. There were rumors of an incident at the Brooklyn terminals earlier.”
“Rumors are easily manufactured by desperate men,” Victor said, stepping close enough that Lorenzo had to tilt his head back. “Allow me to introduce my companion. Adriana Blake. An artist with an extraordinary eye for detail.”
Adriana extended her gloved hand toward Lorenzo, her smile razor-sharp.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Voss. Though technically, I believe I caught your good side earlier today on the Lower East Side. Under the yellow umbrella.”
May you like
Lorenzo’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes darted to Adriana’s clutch, suddenly realizing who she was.
The game was no longer in the shadows. The knives were drawn in plain sight.
