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Jeanie
Iadjust my black dress shirt and step into the bustling kitchen. It’s a madhouse with cooks doing their thing and shouting at each other and the catering staff running all over the place carrying plates, trays, drinks, and more.
Lauren spots me in the chaos and waves me over. “Jeanie, over here!” I wade through the mass of people and stand next to a small table laden with wrapped silverware. “God, I’m so glad you’re here. We’re totally short-staffed and about a hundred rich people are about to show up any second.”
“I’m happy to help out but you know I don’t have a lot of experience with this.”
Lauren waves that away. “All you gotta do is walk around with napkins and a big tray and ask people if they want anything. Give them whatever and try not to slap the old perverts when they pinch your ass or call you sweetie.” She makes a face. “I hate when they call me sweetie.”
I laugh and accept the tray Lauren shoves into my arms. She’s been my best friend since I was a little girl and there’s nobody in this world that knows me better than she does. She’s taller than me by an inch with light blonde hair and blue eyes and these amazing Nordic cheekbones and a figure to die for, but she always keeps herself covered in these big, baggy outfits. Even right now, her dark shirt is two sizes too big, the cuffs rolled up to her wrists. She looks like a little girl cosplaying in her daddy’s clothes.
I’m directed to a very angry-looking cook who dumps a bunch of pastries on my plate. “Crab,” he grunts and points at the door. I get the hint and scurry off, stepping out into a massive, gorgeous ballroom in the heart of Phoenix’s nicest hotel.
The room isn’t crowded yet. It’s the opposite of the kitchen. A small jazz band plays gentle, calming music, and a saxophone rolls a lilting ballad. It’s soft and quiet, the tables covered in big flower centerpieces, the chandeliers glittering. The space looks like something from the Gilded Age with gold-tinged decorations on the walls and more crystals glittering than a jeweler’s display case.
Men and women mill around in suits and dresses. The age range is mixed, but skews older, and there’s some loud laughter mixed in with the groups. More people arrive every moment, and my heart’s already pattering quickly in my chest as I nervously begin passing out my hors d’oeuvres. When someone asks me what they are, all I say is crab with an apologetic shrug. The rich ladies don’t like that one tiny bit.
I try not to let their dirty looks bother me.
I don’t normally do catering, but Lauren really wanted some help tonight, and I couldn’t turn her down when she told me the event was for the new young hot-shot lawyer running for Phoenix DA. The city’s elite would show up and I had a feeling I might get another chance at seeing Malcolm Strafford again—even though running into him right now is ill-advised.
According to Gavino anyway. But what do I know about Gavino Bruno? Nothing but his reputation, and that’s not exactly trustworthy.
My stomach is a wreck and I’m struggling to seem normal as I keep on passing around the room. As the night wears on, more and more rich people cram into the space, and soon I’m assaulted as soon as I leave the kitchens. On my fourth trek into the midst of the starving, rude, well-dressed old assholes, I come to a staggering halt between groups as I spot a man I recognize standing nearby.
It’s Benedict Emmerson, Malcolm’s right-hand man. He’s tall, dark, with a scar under one eye and a mouth that’s always scowling. I watch him for a moment and let a couple pick at my tray, ignoring the fact that the old woman is touching every single crab-filled puff pastry in an attempt to find the best one—spoiler alert, they’re all the same—and slowly work up my courage.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
I head back into the kitchen when my tray is empty and ditch it somewhere in the back. I sneak past Lauren, careful not to let her notice the fact that I’m empty-handed, and feel extremely guilty the whole time. I agreed to do this to help her and only hoped I’d have another chance at stalking Malcolm, and now that it’s happening, I almost wish it weren’t mostly so that I could focus on working for my best friend.
But I’ve come too far to turn back now. I do a loop of the room until I spot Benedict again, still in deep conversation with a couple of people I don’t recognize. I grab a glass from an empty table and stalk toward them, my hands trembling and sweating. I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but I have to.
I need proof. I have to find documents that can show Malcolm ruined my mother’s life and destroyed my childhood. I know that proof exists somewhere as financial records, or handwritten notes, or something—a man like Malcolm must keep track of the bribes he pays out.
Especially the bribes that led to a woman getting fired from her government postal job and evicted from her home.
My heart’s racing. I’m so nervous right now I could puke. If I get caught doing what I’m about to do, Benedict will kill me.
I mean that literally. He’ll kill me.
I walk faster, hurrying toward him, going straight toward his back. My eyes drift down to his pockets, looking for the tell-tale lump of keys, when suddenly someone steps in front of me and I run right into his chest.
“Excuse me,” I stammer in shock and look up to see Gavino grinning down at me.
He grips my wrist tight and holds it. “Now where are you going looking so determined?”
I blink rapidly in shock. What the hell is Gavino Bruno doing here? This is a fundraiser for the future DA. Shouldn’t a crime family like the Brunos want to be far, far away from an event like this? And yet there he is, in the flesh, holding onto my wrist and looking into my eyes like he knows exactly what I was about to do.
I glance past him, over his shoulder, and Benedict is walking away.
Ah, crap.
He tightens his grip. “You weren’t about to bother Mr. Strafford’s bodyguard, were you?”
I glare at Gavino and wrench my wrist away. “He’s not a bodyguard. He’s a fixer and a killer.”
“Same difference. What are you doing here? Are you stalking me now?”
