Chapter 3
The continuous, muted clatter of silver cutlery against fine porcelain provided a rhythmic backdrop to the memorial dinner. The luxurious, intimate atmosphere of the dining hall felt entirely secure to the wealthy guests, insulated by wealth and armed guards.
Then, the heavy oak doors at the back of the room opened.
Mina stepped into the bright, clear illumination of the grand dining room. Her sophisticated black uniform stood out starkly against the ivory wall panels. She walked with a graceful, measured posture, her head held high despite the terrifying drumbeat of her heart.
Beside her, leaning heavily on his walking cane, was Hugh Mercer.
It took only a few seconds for the nearest table to notice the intrusion. The sight of the frail, scarred old man in a worn wool coat walking through a sea of tailored suits and silk gowns was jarring. But it was his identity that sent a shockwave through the room.
"Is that... is that Mercer?" a senator’s wife murmured to her husband, her wine glass halting halfway to her lips.
"It can't be," the man whispered back, his fair face draining of color. "The boss put a bounty on his head a year ago. He disappeared after the old man was hit."
The whispers spread like a sudden, violent wildfire. As Mina and Hugh navigated the maze of polished walnut tables and champagne velvet chairs, the ambient noise of the room began to die. One by one, the guests stopped speaking. The clinking of silverware ceased. Dozens of powerful men and women turned their heads, their eyes wide with shock and morbid anticipation.
Yvonne Vale was in the middle of a polite conversation with a lieutenant when the silence crept up to the head table. She paused, her elegant manners faltering for a fraction of a second as she followed the collective gaze of the room.
When Yvonne saw the old chauffeur limping toward them, her sympathetic public expression froze. Her fair, rosy skin grew taut, and the sapphire silk of her gown rustled as her posture went completely rigid.
"Guards," a capo hissed from a nearby table, rising half out of his chair and reaching inside his jacket.
"Stand down," Kellan’s voice rang out, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Kellan had not moved from his chair. His broad, powerful shoulders remained relaxed, but his cold, deeply observant eyes were locked onto the approaching pair. He recognized the old man instantly. The man who had driven his father for twenty years. The man who had supposedly abandoned him to die in a pool of blood.
Mina guided Hugh toward the space directly to the right of the head table. There was an empty champagne velvet chair situated near Kellan.
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"Keep walking, Hugh," Mina whispered, her voice barely audible over the roaring silence of the room. "Don't look at anyone but him."
Hugh’s breathing was shallow and ragged. Every step was an agony of fear, but he forced himself forward, stepping fully into the warm golden light cast by the cascading crystal chandeliers.
