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Not sneaky FBI surveillance photographs, either. These will be splashed all over the internet, New York society come out to play.
Caitlin and Juno flank me as I enter the lobby. The ballroom beyond glitters with tiered crystal chandeliers and precious metals. Diamonds dazzle at throats and wrists, refracting the light into prismatic rainbows. Laughter rises in counterpoint to the melodic strains of a classical music quartet playing unobtrusively in the corner. Servers in crisp white shirts weave through the guests, offering flutes of champagne and elaborate canapes on silver trays. Despite the charitable purpose, the room reeks of excess.
My lip curls slightly. Some of these glittering socialites could fund the kitchen for a year with just the jewels on one hand. And it’s my job to get those hands writing out checks tonight.
I tap my smile back into place as I step further into the ballroom, one hand adjusting the cowl back of my dress, making sure it sits right.
Here we go.
I make the rounds, air-kissing cheeks and squeezing hands, paying compliments and making small talk. Old money, new money, celebrity and infamy—they’re all here tonight. My smile gleams, bright and sharp, polished to a ruthless edge. I’m in my element.
These games of smoke and mirrors are my specialty.
A passing server offers a crystal flute and I take it, the champagne bubbles pleasantly teasing my tongue. The vintage wefinallygot through customs. At least that problem had a solution.
Still, the dry bitterness lingers beneath each sweet sip.
Tonight I will do what my mother most wishes I would do, and beexactlylike my cousin Juno. Smooth, cold, flawless.
Untouchable.
I chat and charm on autopilot, detached from the swirl of colorful dresses and exchange of pleasantries. The champagne makes it easier to wear the mask, but it seems to grow heavier with each passing minute.
My cheeks begin to ache from the strain of smiling, but I think I’m succeeding at appearing my usual sociable self until I catch Juno watching me across the ballroom with a contemplative stare.
After an endless parade of small talk, the lights finally dim, signaling the start of the program. I weave between circular tables draped in white linen, making my way to the low stage at the front of the ballroom.
Get through this speech and the worst is over.
Just one more performance.
I take my place behind the sleek podium emblazoned with the logo of Anna’s Kitchen. And then I welcome the luminaries to our biggest fundraiser yet.
My speeches usually roll off my tongue fluidly, well-practiced and polished. I’ve always enjoyed public speaking, playing my audience like a pianist before a grand piano.
But tonight I feel like the keys stick, clang out of tune.
I’m almost grateful when the double doors crash open halfway through my speech, interrupting my stilted cadence. The interlopers stalk inside, black Kevlar and stern faces contrasting the colorful cocktail dresses and tuxedos.
My heart stops for a moment when I recognize the logo on their helmets.
FBI.
They march through the ballroom in tight formation, paying no mind to the affronted staff fluttering about them. Conversations die away, replaced by the heavy tread of their footfalls. At the front, the lead agent climbs the short staircase to the stage in one long stride.
And I stand there and watch him.
He stops an arm’s length away, and when he speaks, his words are picked up by the microphone.
Amplified.
“Alessa de Luca, you are under arrest for fraud, illegal gambling, and racketeering. You have the right to remain silent...”
The Miranda warning fades into white noise as he turns me around. I don’t resist. There’s no point.
He clasps handcuffs over my wrists, the metal biting cold. I don’t resist as he guides me down the steps. My vision tunnels until all I see are the heavy doors ahead.
Numb, I let him lead me through the parted sea of tables, all eyes tracking our passage. Murmuring, judging, horrified.
