Chapter 7 - The Lap of the King
The ballroom exploded into instant, high-society panic.
Bailiffs shouted commands, women shrieked as champagne glasses shattered against the marble floor, and city officials scrambled toward the exit doors, only to find uniformed federal officers blocking every doorway.
"Stay where you are!" a federal prosecutor shouted through a bullhorn from the stage. "This building is under judicial seal! Everyone remain at your tables!"
Victor Moretti’s face turned gray. "That traitorous son of a bitch..." he snarled, watching Thomas Kross walk into the room with six federal agents behind him.
Julian didn't panic.
In the middle of three hundred screaming socialites and forty armed federal agents, Julian Vance moved with the fluid, calculated speed of a chess master making a final move.
He grabbed my wrist, pulled me toward the nearest curtained alcove behind the grand piano, and sat down on a heavy mahogany leather armchair positioned near the corner column.
"Julian, what are you doing?" I gasped, my heart slamming against my ribs as federal officers swept through the main floor. "They have search warrants! They’re arresting everyone!"
"Sit," Julian ordered softly.
Before I could answer, he reached up, caught my waist, and pulled me directly down onto his lap.
My emerald silk dress bunched around his dark trousers. My back pressed against his broad chest, my thighs resting over his left leg. One of his arms wrapped around my waist like a steel beam, pinning me against his body, while his other hand reached up to gently tuck a loose strand of dark hair behind my ear.
"Julian!" I whispered, my face burning, my skin tingling where his chest met mine. "What are you doing?!"
"Shh," he whispered against my neck. His breath was warm, smelling of dark espresso and mint. "Look at me. Put your arms around my neck."
"Are you insane?!"
"Thomas Kross brought the feds here to arrest Moretti and me on RICO charges," Julian murmured, his grey eyes locked onto mine with terrifying, hypnotic intensity. "If they find you standing beside me as a detached witness, they will impound you, take you to a federal holding facility, and Kross will have you killed in a cell before the grand jury convenes."
"And sitting on your lap fixes that?!"
"If you are my lover, you fall under spousal privilege non-compulsory interview exemptions for immediate scene detention," Julian whispered, his thumb lightly tracing the line of my jaw. "They cannot seize you without a specific named warrant. Wrap your arms around me, Elena. Now."
I looked over his shoulder.
Thomas Kross and three FBI agents were pushing through the curtained alcove, their eyes scanning every booth. Kross carried a digital tablet displaying my mugshot from the Vespers employment file.
I didn't think. Instinct took over.
I slid both my arms around Julian’s neck, pulling myself tight against his chest. I buried my face into the crook of his warm shoulder, resting my chin against his collarbone, letting my emerald silk dress drape over his knees like a curtain.
Julian’s arm tightened around my waist, pulling me so close I could feel the hard, steady thrum of his heartbeat through his tuxedo jacket.
"Search this section!" Kross’s voice rang out three feet away from our booth.
Heavy boots stopped right beside our table.
"Mr. Vance," a stern federal agent's voice said from above us. "Stand up slowly and keep your hands visible."
Julian didn't stand. He didn't even move. He stayed seated in the leather armchair, holding me securely on his lap, looking up at the federal agents with an expression of calm, aristocratic annoyance.
"Agent Miller," Julian said smoothly. "You are ruining a private moment."
Kross stepped forward, his eyes locking onto the dark hair and bare back of the woman wrapped around Julian Vance. He held up the tablet, his hand shaking slightly.
"Where is Elena Voss?" Kross demanded, his voice thin, nervous. "We know she was in the Maybach with you!"
Julian looked down at me, his hand gently stroking my dark hair with a tenderness that felt so real it sent a shockwave straight through my chest.
"My girlfriend does not appreciate being shouted at by traitors, Thomas," Julian said softly.
Kross reached out to grab my shoulder. "Turn around! Let me see your face!"
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Before Kross’s fingers could touch my emerald dress, Julian’s hand snapped up like a striking viper. He caught Kross’s wrist in a vise-like grip, squeezing until the iron bones of the older man’s arm creaked.
"Touch her," Julian whispered, his slate-grey eyes flashing with an ancient, murderous promise, "and I will tear your hand off your arm before these agents can clear their holsters."
