Page 202 of Ricardo

“How do you know that?” Diego asks.

“Because she has touched the clasp of her evening bag three times, checked whether her driver texted, and moved her shawl over her arm.” Julia tilts her head slightly. “She will make her goodbye to the mayor, then to Mario, then she will leave through the main entrance because she wants people to see that she stayed through your remarks but did not linger too long. It's her usual tactic.”

Diego looks at her for a second.

Then he says, “Useful.”

Julia’s mouth twitches, despite everything. “I do try.”

Mario’s gaze moves back to me. “If donors start leaving before we are ready, we adapt.”

“We can let Rusk leave with the early departures,” Lorenzo says. “Easier to separate him once the valet is busy.”

“Or harder,” Julia says.

All of us look at her.

She does not shrink beneath the attention.

“If he came in as a substitution, he may expect you to check the entry chain once you notice him. He may leave early for that reason. If he does, someone is probably waiting for him. Driver, second car, maybe someone watching the valet line.”

Mario studies her. “You think like a politician.”

“That,” she says, “is insulting. But I won't hold it against you.”

He turns toward Diego. “Make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Diego casually walks away, lifting a champagne glass off a roving server’s tray.

“The rest of you,” he says, “mingle.”

I look at Julia.

Her face is pale, but her eyes are determined.

“Stay close,” I say quietly.

This time, she does not argue.

Her hand slips into the crook of my arm, and together, we turn back toward the ballroom, toward the music, toward the smiles, toward the man who still believes he came here unnoticed.

Chapter Twenty Seven

Julia

“The rest of you,” Mario says, “mingle.”

So we do.

Ricardo’s hand settles at the small of my back again, warm through green silk, and we turn toward the ballroom as if we are simply returning to the evening. As if no man near the sponsor wall now has all of our attention. As if half the Conti family has not just repositioned itself around him like a closing fist.

Music plays. Guests laugh.

A server passes with champagne.

I lift a fresh glass from the tray because it gives my hand something to do, though I still have no intention of drinking it.

Across the ballroom, Evan Rusk continues speaking to Owen as if he belongs here. He laughs at something Owen says. Owen’s mouth moves in response, but the rest of his face looks wrong. Too pale. Too tight. Too aware of the man beside him.