All around us, music pumped and bodies moved on the dance floor. Aerial silk performers in domino masks entertained from above. Franky Russo hadn’t even been buried yet, but no one seemed saddened by his death.
Brandon’s warm hand took hold of mine, and he led me toward the restrooms, clearing the path of excited partygoers with his tall, broad frame.
“Meet me back here,” he said, and we parted ways.
The ladies’ room was as luxurious as the rest of the house. Floor-to-ceiling white marble, gold trimmings, wall-length mirrors. It was a little pretentious for my liking, but what the heck did I know about mansion décor?
I headed for the empty stall at the end, locked the door behind me, and wasted no time jimmying the ceramic cistern lid free. Loud music from the ball drowned out any odd sounds I made.
Thank God.Brandon’s waterproof bag was still inside. I’d worried a maintenance person might’ve found it. Or even worse, someone would lie in wait to discover who collected the bags. I needed to remain cautious.
No time to wonder about that. I leaned over the tank and plunged my arm into the water.Damn you, Brandon.
I dried my skin with toilet paper and took the items out of the black plastic bag one by one. The small pistol and extra magazine went straight into my purse. I switched on the cell phone and it autodownloaded an app Brandon had remotely sent this morning. Once the program loaded, it showed a live status of the alarm system. A map of the mansion gave the real-time location of each guard. Brandon had stolen the code the night he’d broken in, and he’d configured the app yesterday.
I smiled when I removed a final, unexpected item from the bag. A thin, lightweight dagger with a sheath and twin securing straps. I hiked my dress up, wrapped the holster around my thigh, and adjusted the buckles until they were firm but comfortable. The slender knife remained hidden because my dress tapered out below the hip.
After replacing the cistern lid and washing my hands, I headed out of the restroom and found Brandon waiting for me.
“All good?” he asked, and we headed back toward the crowded ballroom.
“Perfect. And thank you for the gift. The pointy one.” I beamed at him. “I love it.”
His lips tilted up. “My pleasure. I saw it and thought of you.” He turned to me. “Is that strange?”
“Perhaps. But I have a feeling our relationship won’t conform to social norms. I mean, we got into a bar fight on our first date. And this is technically our second.”
“Life will never be dull with you, will it?”
“Now there’s incentive to live past tonight.” It surprised me I could joke at a time like this. Brandon had been right. Now that we’d arrived, and with the comforting feeling of being armed, I felt less anxious than I had on our journey here. “What do we do now?”
“Now”—Brandon snatched two flutes of champagne from a passing server and handed me one—“we wait.”
Two hours later and the party was pumping. I wasn’t sure if it was the blow or the booze—probably both—but the guests had loosened up. The music got louder and the entertainment more risqué. Some servers, male and female, had lost their shirts, and I was pretty certain three people tangled on a lounge in a dark corner were actually having sex.
“Over there at the bar,” said Brandon. “He’s on his own.”
Not Dante. Governor Drummond. Brandon had tracked him since we’d arrived, and now it was time to make our move.
I squinted to see through clouds of artificial smoke and strobe lights. The stout man with salt-and-pepper hair had a cigar secured in the top pocket of his navy tux. The brushed-silver demon mask he wore was entirely appropriate.
Standing alone at the bar, he didn’t look in the mood for celebrating. Did he already have concerns about what type of organization Dante would usher in? We were about to plant another seed of doubt in his mind.
On our way to him, Brandon altered his stride to a lazy swagger. And when we crashed into the bar, I giggled like a fool and held onto Brandon’s arm for support while wobbling on my heels.
“Two more martinis,” Brandon said to the bartender before glancing at the man in the devil mask. “And something for my friend here, who looks like he needs cheering up. What’ll it be?” He clasped the governor’s shoulder with a heavy hand.
Devil Man sneered at Brandon’s hand as if it were infected with the plague, then tossed back the last of the amber liquor in his glass. “Macallan. Eighteen-year-old.”
It was definitely Governor Drummond. I recognized his self-righteous voice from TV. I held in a snort. He might like his whiskey aged, but if the stories about him were true, his proclivities for the opposite sex were younger. Much younger. And soon, we’d have the video evidence from the vault to prove it.
“Expensive taste,” said Brandon. “And why not? May as well make the most of the free booze and blow. I doubt there’ll be any more parties for Dante Moretti. Am I right?” Brandon laughed and elbowed the grim-faced governor, sending him off balance.
That got his attention. He turned to Brandon. “What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t heard? Oh man. Moretti is royally fucked. When we were doing our investigation at Vixens—shit—I mean, I know a guy who was there after the shoot-out, and he said whoever took down all those mobsters also cleaned out the boss’s safe. All of it, gone. Poof.” Brandon made a gesture like he was performing a magic disappearing trick.
“Moretti has enough money to fill half the banks in Philly. I doubt losing the contents of one safe will set him back.”