Chapter 3 - The Shadow of the Past
Norah’s feet faltered. The rhythm of the waltz broke for a fraction of a second, her heel catching on the hem of her gown.
Vincent caught her instantly. His left arm tightened around her waist, lifting her effortlessly until her footing was restored, his right hand never releasing hers. To the dozens of onlookers watching the newlywed Morettis, it looked like an impassioned dip, a theatrical flourish of a man desperately in love with his wife.
“What is it?” Vincent asked against her ear, his voice sharp and low. “What did you see?”
“Evan,” she whispered, her chest heaving against his chest. “He’s by the service entrance. Julian Hale is talking to him.”
Vincent didn't look. He didn't break the slow, hypnotic movement of their dance. He simply rotated her through the next turn, his back broad and shielding, positioning his body between Norah and the entrance.
“How did he get in?” Norah’s mind raced. “Evan doesn't have an invitation to a Saint Jude gala. He works in mid-level municipal logistics. He can't afford the parking ticket outside this hotel.”
“Julian brought him,” Vincent said, his voice entirely devoid of panic, replaced by that terrifying, analytical coldness. “Hale ran your phone records before you powered the device down. They saw the incoming call from his number at 9:15 PM last night. They picked him up, asked him questions, and realized they had found the man who was sharing your bed forty-eight hours before you allegedly married me six months ago.”
Norah felt a wave of nausea. “Evan will tell them the truth. He’ll tell them we broke up on Sunday! He’ll tell them there was no wedding!”
“He already did,” Vincent murmured. “Why do you think Julian is parading him here? They want a public scene. They want your ex-fiancé to cause a scandal in front of the press and the district attorney, exposing our marriage as a legal fiction. Once the marriage is proven fraudulent, Raymond can move against you without breaking the syndicates' neutrality protocols regarding family.”
“What neutrality protocols?”
“In our world, wives and children are off-limits. Strangers and pawns are fair game.” Vincent spun her again, his eyes locking onto hers. “Evan is a loose end, Norah. And loose ends get cut.”
“No!” Norah’s fingers dug into the fabric of his jacket. “Vincent, you cannot kill him! He’s pathetic, he’s selfish, and he broke my heart, but he doesn't deserve to be executed in a basement because I had bad taste in men!”
Vincent looked down at her, his expression unreadable. For several long seconds, the only sound was the swelling violins and the rustle of silk around them.
“I won't kill him,” Vincent said softly. “On one condition.”
“What condition?”
“You let me handle the conversation. You don't intervene. You stand by my side, you look at him like he is dirt beneath your shoes, and you let him dig his own grave.”
Before Norah could answer, the waltz ended with a dramatic flourish of brass and strings. Polite applause rippled through the grand ballroom.
Vincent didn't release her hand. He brought her knuckles to his lips, kissing the heavy diamond ring in full view of the society photographers whose flashbulbs popped in rapid succession. Then, with an easy, relaxed stride, he turned Norah toward the bar—directly in the path where Julian Hale and Evan were walking toward them.
Evan looked completely out of place. He was wearing an off-the-rack navy suit that was slightly too tight across the shoulders, his tie askew, his face flushed red with sweat and cheap liquor. When his eyes locked onto Norah, his mouth fell open.
“Norah?” Evan blurted out, loud enough to draw the attention of several nearby couples. “What the hell is this?”
Julian Hale stood just behind him, a smug, venomous grin playing across his features. “Ah, Vincent. Mrs. Moretti. We have an unexpected guest who claims he has a prior claim on the bride.”
Vincent stopped. He didn't let go of Norah’s waist. He looked down at Evan with the mild, dispassionate curiosity one might reserve for an insect crawling across a marble countertop.
“Who is this, darling?” Vincent asked Norah, his voice dripping with aristocratic boredom.
Norah felt every eye in their quadrant of the room turn toward them. She looked at Evan. She saw the man she had spent four years cooking for, the man whose laundry she had folded, the man who had packed his things while she was at work and left a sticky note on the microwave saying *‘I need space to find myself.’*
He didn't look like a heartbroken lover. He looked like an opportunist who smelled money and was desperate to tear her down to his level.
“His name is Evan Miller,” Norah said, her voice clear, steady, and chillingly indifferent. “He used to manage the building maintenance at my old apartment complex.”
Evan’s face turned scarlet. “What? Building maintenance? Norah, we lived together for four years! I moved out on Sunday! You were crying in the kitchen forty-eight hours ago!”
Julian’s grin widened. “Fascinating. A four-year cohabitation that ended two days ago? That makes your April wedding in Saint Paul rather difficult to explain, doesn't it, Moretti?”
Vincent didn't flinch. He slowly reached into his inner pocket, pulled out a gold cigarette case, clicked it open, and selected an unfiltered clove cigarette. He didn't light it. He tapped it once against the back of his thumb.
“Mr. Miller,” Vincent said, his voice quiet, low, and carrying a lethal resonance that seemed to drop the temperature of the room by ten degrees. “I am going to say this once, and only once, for the benefit of your continued respiratory function.”
Evan swallowed hard, stepping back involuntarily.
“My wife had a brief, charitable lapse in judgment when she allowed you to crash in her guest bedroom while you sorted out your delinquent student loans,” Vincent said smoothly. “She felt pity for you. Because Norah has a soft heart. But pity is not passion, Mr. Miller. And when you stole twelve thousand dollars of heirloom jewelry from her dresser on Sunday morning and fled, she decided not to press charges out of simple disgust.”
“What?” Evan shrieked, his voice cracking. “I didn't steal anything! That’s a lie!”
“The police report was filed yesterday morning with Detective Miller at the 18th Precinct,” Vincent continued without missing a beat, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “Grand larceny. A class two felony in the state of Illinois. Carries four to seven years in Stateville Penitentiary.”
Julian Hale’s smile vanished. He turned a furious glare toward Evan. “You told me she had no ties to him!”
“I don't! She didn't! She’s lying, he’s lying!” Evan was sweating profusely now, looking wildly around the room. The patrons of high society were looking at him with open disgust, murmuring among themselves about a common thief crashing a charity ball.
“Now,” Vincent took a single step toward Evan, looming over the smaller man like a shadow of death. “You have sixty seconds to walk out the service entrance, pack your bags, and board the midnight Greyhound out of Chicago. If you are still within the city limits when the sun rises, Detective Miller will serve the warrant. And believe me when I tell you, Mr. Miller... Stateville is a very unkind place for men with fragile bones.”
Evan looked at Norah. “Norah, please—”
“Get out,” Norah said. Her voice didn't waver.
Evan turned and practically sprinted toward the kitchen doors, knocking over a tray of champagne glasses in his panic.
Julian Hale stood alone, his fists clenched at his sides. “Clever, Vincent. Very clever. But a fabricated police report won't save you from what’s coming.”
Vincent leaned in, his lips inches from Julian’s ear. “Tell your father that if he ever approaches my wife again, I won't use the police. I’ll use gasoline.”
Julian’s jaw worked silently. He turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows of the ballroom.
Norah let out a long, ragged exhale, her knees suddenly feeling like water. She would have collapsed if Vincent’s arm hadn't caught her, anchoring her firmly against his chest.
“Did you really file a police report against him?” she whispered, staring up at him in disbelief.
Vincent looked down at her, a dark, wicked glint of admiration dancing in his eyes. “I filed it twenty minutes after we left Bellini last night. Always secure your flanks, Norah.”
“You are terrifying.”
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“I’m effective,” Vincent replied, pulling her closer as the orchestra struck up a new song. “And you, my dear wife, were magnificent.”
***