Chapter 1 - The Weight of a Lie
Captain Owen Harris narrowed his eyes, shifting his gaze from Mateo’s impenetrable expression to Genevieve. The flashing red and blue lights from the police cruisers outside painted the shattered marble floor in eerie, pulsing strokes. Sirens wailed incessantly in the distance, a chaotic soundtrack to a moment that felt entirely frozen in time.
“The event coordinator?” Harris repeated, his voice dripping with skepticism. “Viscanti, you expect me to believe you brought your date to a charity gala that turned into a firing range, and she just happened to be standing next to the service corridor?”
Genevieve felt the microscopic shift in Mateo’s hand behind her neck—a subtle, grounding pressure telling her not to break. She forced her lungs to draw breath, pasting a look of haughty, insulted exhaustion onto her face. Years of managing high-society bridezillas and erratic billionaires had prepared her for performance under pressure, but nothing quite like a mafia interrogation.
“If Mr. Viscanti had brought me as his date, Captain,” Genevieve said, her voice dripping with sharp disdain, “I certainly wouldn't have spent two hours checking table settings and arguing with the catering director about gluten-free canapés. But as the senior event coordinator for Sinclair House, I am required to oversee the room. Unfortunately, that includes being trapped near a service corridor while lunatics with assault rifles tear up a four-thousand-dollar floral arrangement.”
Harris blinked, thrown off by the sharp pivot into operational logistics.
Mateo didn't blink. He smoothed his thumb lightly against the nape of her neck—an intimate gesture performed with terrifying casualness in front of a dozen armed police officers.
“She is under my protection, Harris,” Mateo said, his voice dropping an octave, losing all conversational pretense. “Which means she leaves with me. If you want a formal statement regarding the catering arrangements or the trajectory of the bullets, my legal counsel will schedule an appointment tomorrow morning at my office. Not tonight. She is exhausted.”
Arthur Pendleton shifted his weight near the exit, his silver hair catching the flashing lights. His eyes were cold, boring into the back of Genevieve’s head with a silent warning.
Harris looked like he wanted to argue, but locking horns with Mateo Viscanti in a public hotel ballroom surrounded by reporters already gathering outside was a battle he chose not to fight tonight.
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“Fine,” Harris spat, stepping aside. “Go. But if she misses a subpoena, Viscanti, your name goes on the warrant too.”
Mateo didn't bother answering. He slid his arm around Genevieve’s waist, pulling her flush against his side, and guided her past the broken crystal and drying blood toward the private exit.
