Chapter 2 - The Shark Tank at the Plaza
That evening, the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel smelled overwhelmingly of expensive orchids, roasted duck, and suffocating corporate desperation.
Mave stood rigidly beside a towering marble pillar near the rear of the room, holding a flute of champagne she had absolutely no intention of drinking. She felt like a complete impostor trapped in enemy territory.
The dress Vincent had forced her to buy was midnight-blue silk, sleek and minimalist compared to the blinding sequins, feathers, and diamonds worn by the mob wives and politicians’ spouses milling about. It clung to her curves closely enough to make her hyper-aware of every single movement. It felt less like evening wear and more like a layer of silk armor.
The ballroom was a literal shark tank disguised as a high-society charity gala.
Across the glittering room, Vincent stood near a massive ice sculpture while a nervous state senator babbled on about local property taxes. Vincent appeared completely relaxed, comfortable in his element.
Mave knew better. She read the subtle language of his body. She saw the slight, dangerous tightening of his chiseled jaw. She saw his left hand resting casually inside his jacket pocket, dangerously close to the custom sidearm she knew he carried despite the metal detectors at the main entrance.
“He’s looking at you again.”
Mave gasped softly, startled, and accidentally spilled a single drop of champagne onto her thumb.
Leo, one of Vincent’s most trusted lieutenants, materialized beside her, holding a club soda with a lime.
“He was just pretending to look at his phone, Leo,” Mave muttered, wiping her thumb with a napkin.
“He’s not looking at his phone, Mave. He scans the room every four seconds. But he looks at you every ten seconds. There’s a distinct difference. It’s like an invisible tether.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” heat rushing into Mave’s face, turning her cheeks crimson. “I’m his secretary. I’m the brain cell that remembers the senator’s wife’s name and balances the ledgers. That’s all I am.”
“Sure, Mave. Keep telling yourself that,” Leo chuckled softly, finding a piece of mint gum in his pocket. “Just keep your eyes open tonight. There are a lot of ghosts walking around this room.”
He slipped away into the thick crowd before Mave could demand to know what he meant by ghosts.
She looked back across the ballroom toward Vincent.
He was looking right at her.
Through the shifting, glittering field of tuxedos and designer gowns, his dark, intense eyes locked onto hers with laser precision. The polite public smile he had worn for the politicians had entirely vanished from his face. His expression was dark, heavy, and unreadable.
Something shifted deep inside Mave’s ribs. It wasn’t exactly fear. It was something much closer to gravitational pull.
She quickly broke eye contact and pretended to check her phone, using an incoming email about the Queens warehouse inventory as a desperate excuse to anchor herself to something ordinary.
A few more hours, she chanted internally. Smile. Nod. Go home to my cat and sweatpants.
When she finally raised her head again, the atmosphere in the room had subtly morphed. The string quartet was still playing softly in the corner. Conversations continued to hum. Crystal glasses touched.
Yet, the air suddenly felt significantly colder.
Mave’s gaze drifted toward the grand double mahogany doors leading out to the main lobby. A man was standing there, and he instantly triggered every survival instinct she possessed.
He did not belong.
He wore a tuxedo, but it sat awkwardly on his frame—too loose across the shoulders, as though he was unaccustomed to wearing fine wool and was used to something much heavier underneath. His pale hair was shaved aggressively close along the sides, and a jagged, white scar cut vertically across his left eyebrow.
He carried no drink. He shook no hands. He spoke to nobody.
He simply watched.
Mave quickly opened the digital guest list on her tablet. She knew every single face cleared to be inside this ballroom tonight. Politicians, local syndicate bosses, legitimate donors, corporate elites.
The scarred man was nowhere on the list.
She scanned the room for Leo, but he was nowhere to be found.
Then she looked back at Vincent.
Vincent was already staring at the stranger.
Mave watched the exact micro-second Vincent’s expression turned lethal. His polite facade evaporated. His broad shoulders squared. His right hand slid completely out of his pocket, resting firmly and steadily against his thigh.
He muttered something abrupt to the senator, cutting the man off mid-sentence, and began to walk.
Not toward the bar. Not toward the exit.
He was walking directly toward Mave.
Her stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. She looked back at the stranger by the doors.
The man was no longer looking at the room at all.
He was looking straight at her.
The stranger tilted his head to the side. A slow, terrifying smile spread across his lips. Then, he started pushing through the thick crowd, moving purposefully in her direction.
Mave stepped backward. Her stiletto heels struck the solid marble pillar.
Twenty feet.
Ten feet.
Then, a wall of warm charcoal wool filled her entire field of vision.
May you like
Vincent stepped squarely between them.
He did not look back at her.
