Chapter 2 - The Red Line
The grip of Mave’s fingers on Vincent’s dark forearm was tight, her knuckles turning pale against his Italian wool sleeve.
Vincent did not flinch. His gaze remained locked on the pale-haired man, whose grin had melted into a flat, hard grimace the instant Mave leaned into Vincent’s space.
“Who is he?” Mave murmured under her breath, keeping her eyes fixed on the lapel of Vincent’s jacket.
“Julian Vance,” Vincent replied quietly, his voice carrying an icy stillness that sent a shiver straight down her spine. “Former captain for the Valetti syndicate out of Philadelphia. He was supposed to be serving twenty years in a federal penitentiary in Pennsylvania.”
“Supposed to be?”
“He walked out two days ago,” Vincent said. “Someone opened the back door for him. And he didn't come to New York for the charity duck.”
Julian stopped ten feet away. His hands were tucked casually into his oversized tuxedo pockets, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. The scar across his eyebrow twitched as he glanced from Vincent’s face down to where Mave’s hand gripped his arm.
“Vincent,” Julian said. His voice sounded like gravel grinding under a heavy boot. “It’s been a long time. I see you’ve upgraded your security detail. Or is she personal property now?”
Mave felt Vincent’s forearm tighten into an iron rod beneath her palm. He didn't take a step forward, nor did he reach for the weapon tucked beneath his suit jacket. He simply stood like a stone monument between Julian and Mave.
“You’re off your leash, Julian,” Vincent said, his voice disturbingly calm. “The city council is in this room. The district attorney is thirty feet away talking about juvenile literacy. If you draw blood here, there isn't a hole deep enough in the Tri-State area to hide what’s left of you.”
Julian’s eyes flicked past Vincent, locking onto Mave’s face. “She looks just like her mother, Vincent. You thought you buried the past when you wiped the records in Belize, but some ghosts don't stay in the dirt.”
Mave froze. Her mother?
Her mother had died in a routine car accident in upstate New York when Mave was six years old. She was a schoolteacher. She had nothing to do with Belize, nothing to do with syndicates, and nothing to do with men like Vincent Costa.
“We’re leaving,” Vincent said without looking back at her.
He turned on his heel, guiding Mave smoothly beside him. His hand settled over hers, his fingers locking over her wrist as he steered her through the sea of tuxedos and gowns toward the side exit leading to the private kitchen passages.
“Vincent, wait—” Mave started.
“Not here,” he commanded softly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Behind them, Leo moved into Julian’s path, stepping out from behind a silver tray of champagne glasses. Two more suited men—Vincent’s quiet guards who had been blending into the crowd near the bar—closed in behind Julian, cutting off his sightline.
They slipped through the double doors into the bright, stainless-steel noise of the Plaza’s main kitchen. Chefs shouted orders in French and Spanish, dishes clattered, and steam rose from industrial ranges. Vincent didn't pause. He walked with long, deliberate strides, practically dragging Mave through the service hallway toward the underground loading bay.
The black Maybach was waiting, its engine idling quietly in the damp air of the garage. The driver, a broad-shouldered man named Hank, threw the rear door open the second he saw them approach.
Vincent practically pushed Mave into the leather interior before sliding in beside her. The heavy door slammed shut with an airtight seal, cutting off the noise of the kitchen entirely.
“Drive,” Vincent barked. “Take the river route. Don't stop for red lights.”
The Maybach surged forward, climbing the concrete ramp and bursting out into the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan.
Mave tore her hand away from Vincent’s arm, rounding on him in the dim interior of the luxury sedan.
“What did he mean?” she demanded, her voice shaking with a mix of fury and mounting terror. “Why did he say I look like my mother? Why did he mention Belize?”
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Vincent turned his head to look at her. The streetlights outside cast alternating bands of amber light and dark shadows across his sharp jawline and cold eyes.
“Because three years ago, Mave,” Vincent said quietly, “I didn't hire you because of your resume. I hired you to keep you alive.”
