Chapter 19 - The Gala of Knives
The announcement arrived three hours later via courier: Henri Valmont himself had landed in New York, hosting an exclusive maritime gala aboard the *Sovereign of the Seas*—a three-hundred-foot luxury megayacht docked at Chelsea Piers.
Every diplomat, port commissioner, and shipping tycoon on the eastern seaboard had been invited. Attached to Harper’s personal invitation was a single dried ivy leaf—the symbol of her mother’s secret trust.
"It's an ambush," Lucas warned, spreading blueprints of the megayacht across the mahogany table in the tower's tactical suite. "The vessel flies a Liberian flag. International maritime law applies once they cast off the lines. If they pull you into federal waters, federal marshals won't have jurisdiction without an act of Congress."
"He won't kidnap us," Dominic said, inspecting the slide of his custom Colt .45. "Valmont is an aristocrat. He wants to force Harper to capitulate in front of her peers. He wants to prove to the shipping cartel that she is a pretender."
Harper looked at her reflection in the dark glass. She had changed into a backless, floor-length gown of emerald velvet that cascaded like liquid jewel down her slender frame. Hidden beneath the heavy slit on her left thigh was a slender titanium ceramic blade strapped to a silk holster.
"We go," Harper said.
"Harper—" Lucas started.
"If we don't go, the shipping council will assume we are hiding," Harper replied, adjusting the silver ivy pendant around her neck. "Valmont invited New York’s elite to watch my coronation fail. Instead, we are going to show them who owns the crown."
Dominic stepped beside her, looking breathtakingly lethal in a bespoke black tuxedo with a crisp silk lapel. He adjusted his cufflinks, his gray eyes locking onto hers with burning intensity.
"My strike team will be in RIB boats half a mile out in the channel," Dominic said. "Lucas will control the bridge comms. If anything feels wrong, Harper, I burn the yacht to the waterline."
"I expect nothing less, Mr. Vale," she replied, a faint, dangerous smirk gracing her lips.
Thirty minutes later, their armored Maybach pulled up to Chelsea Piers. The megayacht blazed with golden light, string quartets playing above the gentle lap of the dark Hudson. Paparazzi and private security formed a gauntlet along the teak gangway.
As Dominic offered his arm, Harper took it, her fingers firm on his sleeve. Together, they ascended into the serpent's den.
The ballroom aboard the *Sovereign* was an opulent palace of gilded mirrors, crystal flutes, and champagne. Conversations ceased the moment Dominic Vale and Harper Castiglione entered.
At the far end of the ballroom, flanked by four hulking Corsican bodyguards in charcoal suits, stood Henri Valmont.
Sixty years old, lean as a greyhound, with silver hair, aristocratic features, and cold, predatory sapphire eyes. He wore an impeccably tailored French double-breasted tuxedo, holding a crystal glass of Dom Pérignon.
"Ah," Valmont’s silky, accented voice drifted across the floor as the crowd parted. "The runaway maid who would be queen. Welcome aboard, Mademoiselle Castiglione."
Harper didn't blink. She walked directly toward him, her emerald gown whispering against the carpet, Dominic walking beside her like an unsheathed saber.
"Monsieur Valmont," Harper replied smoothly. "Thank you for gathering New York’s commercial elite. It saves me the trouble of delivering my warnings individually."
Valmont’s eyes narrowed slightly, a venomous smile touching his thin lips. "Such fire. Clara had the same spark before she died destitute in a Philadelphia boarding house. Tell me, girl... does your handsome gangster know what your mother actually traded to my father thirty years ago?"
Dominic stepped forward, his frame blotting out the light between Valmont and Harper. "Choose your next words carefully, Henri. You are twenty minutes from becoming fish food."
May you like
Valmont laughed softly, raising his glass. "Look out the windows, Dominic Vale. We cast off the lines ten minutes ago. We are already entering the main shipping channel. And beneath our feet, seventy metric tons of industrial explosives are primed beneath the ballast."
***