Chapter 12 - Blood and Champagne
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was bathed in amber floodlights under the ink-black Manhattan sky. Outside, the red carpet was swarmed by flashbulbs, reporters, and a barricade of spectators shivering in the October wind. Inside, the Great Hall hummed with the delicate clinking of crystal flutes, laughter, and the suffocating perfume of old money.
When the heavy doors parted and Lucien Moretti walked in with Evelyn on his arm, the orchestra seemed to stumble over its notes.
Evelyn was breathtaking. She wore an emerald velvet gown with an asymmetrical neckline that clung to every curve of her body like liquid silk, slit to the upper thigh. A necklace of raw, uncut diamonds—a family heirloom Lucien had taken from his private vault that afternoon—rested against her pale throat.
Lucien was in an immaculate black tuxedo, his jaw freshly shaven, his eyes cold and commanding. Together, they looked less like philanthropists and more like conquerors inspecting a province they had just captured.
“Don’t look now,” Evelyn murmured, keeping her head held high as they descended the grand stone staircase, “but Vance is at the ten o'clock position. Near the Roman antiquities wing.”
Lucien didn't turn his head. “I saw him the moment we entered the foyer. He brought six marshals in plainclothes. They’re carrying concealed glocks under their dinner jackets. Amateurs.”
“He thinks you’re going to run,” Evelyn whispered.
“I have never run from anything in my life, little bird,” Lucien rumbled softly, his thumb caressing the bare skin of her back where the gown dipped low. “And I certainly won’t start tonight.”
A circle of Manhattan’s elite immediately gathered around them, offering stiff, nervous pleasantries. Socialites who had previously looked down on Evelyn now smiled with fawning desperation, terrified of the man standing beside her. Evelyn played the game masterfully, answering questions with sharp wit and measured grace, never giving away an inch of weakness.
Suddenly, the crowd parted.
Donovan Vance walked forward, a flute of champagne in his hand, a smug, arrogant smirk playing on his sharp features. Behind him, two men with wired earpieces lingered near the marble pillars.
“Mr. Moretti,” Vance said, extending a hand that Lucien pointedly ignored. “And Ms. Cross. I must say, the city was abuzz with rumors, but I didn't think you’d have the courage to show your face in public tonight.”
“Prosecutor Vance,” Evelyn said, her voice dripping with mock warmth. “I hear your campaign for Attorney General is hitting a rough patch. Down four points in the latest Quinnipiac poll, isn't it?”
Vance’s smirk tightened into a brittle line. “Polls change overnight, Ms. Cross. Especially when major breaking news hits the front pages. Some men think they can buy judges, ports, and boardrooms, but justice always has a way of balancing the books.”
“Justice requires evidence, Vance,” Lucien said, his gray eyes locking onto the prosecutor with a lethal stillness that made the younger man take an involuntary half-step back. “And all you have is a pocket full of empty ambition and dead informants.”
Vance’s face darkened with fury. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a harsh hiss. “Enjoy your champagne, Moretti. Before the night is over, you’ll be leaving this building in federal custody. The warrant was signed twenty minutes ago.”
“Was it?” Evelyn asked, tilting her head innocently.
She pulled a slim, gold-cased smartphone from her beaded clutch, tapped the screen, and turned it toward Vance.
On the screen was a live broadcast of a late-night press conference outside Federal Plaza. Standing behind the microphones was the United States Deputy Attorney General, Vance’s immediate superior.
The ticker scrolling across the bottom read: *FEDERAL PROSECUTOR DONOVAN VANCE SUSPENDED PENDING INVESTIGATION INTO CORRUPTION AND ILLEGAL WIRETAPS.*
Vance’s flute slipped from his fingers, shattering onto the marble floor. Champagne and glass exploded across his polished shoes.
“You didn't think Pendelton was your only leak, did you?” Evelyn whispered, leaning in until her perfume filled Vance’s nostrils. “Lucien owns the banks. But I know how politics work, Donovan. Your campaign finance director sold you out for a wire transfer to a Swiss account an hour ago.”
Vance stared at the screen, his chest heaving, his face ashen.
May you like
Lucien looked down at the ruined prosecutor with pure, unadulterated contempt. “Take your men and leave this hall,” Lucien ordered softly. “Before I decide that ruining your career isn't enough.”
***
