Page 108 of Free to Judge
“Don’t make a scene,” the first man murmurs, that same smile never leaving his face. “You want the press catching this? Photos of your death in a room where your daddy couldn’t do a damn thing about this?”
My heart beats faster. “You’re making a mistake.”
“No, sweetheart,” he says. “Dec did. Now, let’s go.”
They flank me—one gripping my elbow, the other behind me. Together, I’m unwillingly guided toward a shadowed exit—a side door near the caterers’ hallway. The music keeps playing. Chatter rings out behind me.
No one notices.
Not yet.
As we pass through a dim service corridor, my heels scuff the tile. “If you hurt me?—”
“Oh, we won’t hurt you,” the first man says cheerfully. “Not until he makes us.”
“You’re bait, darling,” the second man adds, pressing the knife tighter to my side.
I try to memorize every corner, every door, every turn they make, hoping to be able to run back to safety. That is until the third man shows up.
“You should’ve kept your hands to yourself. Jack said you were never supposed to be part of this. But Dec made you part of it. That makes you his weakness and we plan on exploiting that.”
A black van waits just outside the door. My hand brushes the amaryllis in my skirt. I squeeze it firmly. With a flash of bravery, I hiss out, “I’m not afraid of you.”
The man holding the knife leans in close, breath hot against my ear. “Good,” he says. “Fear’s boring. But pain? Pain always gets his attention. At least it did that night at Velvet Vice.”
Then, I’m tossed inside the van. Two of the three men jump into the back, sealing the darkness in.
Before we pull away from the curb, I feel the first lick of pain as one of their feet lands on my ribs.
I just hope the transmitter Aunt Em sews into all our formal clothes for just this reason is setting my father’s receiver off like crazy.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Leaningagainst the balustrade overlooking the ballroom, my eyes scan the crowd waiting to be announced before they descend to the party. My eyes constantly seek her out. She’s a beacon amid the crowd with her long dark locks carelessly swept up and a neckline plunging so deep, it’s a wonder her dress is managing to hold in her ample cleavage.
More than one man has admired her, but she’s oblivious to it. Then there’s her escort—the infamous Peter Freeman. If I didn’t know the man was her cousin, I’d be ready to commit murder at her being so at ease on his arm.
Still, my heart clenches at her radiance. I’m not certain what’s brighter—the crystal chandeliers or her effervescent laugh. I can’t prevent the smile that graces my lips as I watch her. Kalie is always beautiful, but when she smiles, it reminds me of how much brighter she has made my life.
The emcee announces her uncle, Jared Dalton—partner at Watson, Rubenstein, and Dalton—escorted by his husband, Ryan Lockwood. Then, he announces Keene, escorted by Alison.
Finally, I hear the words that take me back to the beginning of our journey, through the time we spent together, bringing us to where we are now.
“Katherine Laura Marshall, Harvard Law Class of 2018. Amaryllis Events. Escorted by Peter Freeman.”
Kalie descends the steps confidently, my smile disintegrating when I recognize how carelessly I treated her. I was a fool not to fall on my knees begging for her forgiveness for my idiocy in trying to subdue my feelings before I ever left her home that morning. I should have let her know long before then about the intricacies of my cover—including the chop shop and meetings at Velvet Vice.
I should have given her a choice, and by failing to do so, I may have self-destructed the only thing that matters—our love. With that knowledge, I make my way over and hand my invitation to the announcer. He glances down, offering me a small frown. “Sir, you didn’t indicate any employment.”
“I know.” I don’t offer him any more or any less. Half the people in the room who haven’t announced their employment are former presidents or heads of agencies who received boisterous rounds of applause. I won’t receive the same, but many in the room will wonder if I’m a part of the intelligence community or if I’m in between jobs.
Right now, it might be a crap shoot if they’re right.
He lifts his microphone to his lips before proclaiming, “Declan Sean Conian. Harvard Law, Class of 2010.” He pauses a moment before sliding the card into the champagne bucket, where he’s placing all the invitations. “Be cautious descending the stairs, Mr. Conian. Welcome to the Fair Harvard Annual Reunion.”
“Thank you.”
I find her eyes on me as I descend the steps. Then Keene mutters something, making me wish I had enhanced hearing, as her family chuckles before moving off in the opposite direction I’m in.
