Chapter 12 - The Lion at the Gala
Walking into the National Portrait Gallery felt like walking directly onto a battlefield paved with Italian marble and illuminated by thousands of twinkling chandeliers.
Three weeks ago, I had been an anonymous woman placed at the outcast table of a charity gala, judged by high society for sitting beside a scarred brute. Tonight, I was draped in an emerald silk gown that clung to every curve, dripping with black diamonds Leandro had pulled from a vault in Geneva, my arm hooked securely into his.
Leandro looked magnificent. His tuxedo was tailored to perfection, emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He made no attempt to conceal his scars; instead, he held his head high, his commanding presence so potent that as we stepped past the security checkpoint, conversations simply withered away.
"Is that..." a woman in a couture gown whispered behind her champagne flute.
"Moretti," an older congressman muttered, his face turning pale gray. "I thought he was buried in the Midwest."
"Eyes forward, Clare," Leandro murmured softly, his hand resting firm and warm over mine on his arm. "They look at you because you are a queen walking through a room of parasites."
"I'm looking for Vance," I replied quietly, scanning the grand atrium.
"He's on the balcony," Leandro said without looking up. "He’s been watching us since we stepped out of the car."
I glanced toward the mezzanine. Standing near the marble balustrade was Senator Julian Vance. He looked every bit the golden boy of American politics—silver-templed, handsome, with a radiant smile plastered across his face. But behind his designer spectacles, his eyes were cold, lifeless, and calculating.
Beside him stood a woman in an elegant, high-collared navy gown. Her face was porcelain, her eyes wide with a terror that no amount of makeup could conceal.
"Evelyn," Leandro breathed beside me. His grip on my hand tightened so hard the diamond rings dug into my fingers, though I didn't pull away.
At that moment, Vance raised his glass toward us from across the mezzanine. He said something to the Secret Service agents flanking him, then descended the grand staircase with deliberate, measured steps. The crowd parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses.
"Leandro," Vance said smoothly, extending a manicured hand as he approached. "I wondered if you had the spine to make the trip East. I must say, surviving that blizzard was quite a magic trick."
Leandro ignored the extended hand entirely. The air between the two men crackled like high-voltage wire.
"You smell like state contracts and dead men, Julian," Leandro said, his voice carrying clearly over the soft chamber orchestra playing in the background.
Vance pulled his hand back smoothly, tucking it into his pocket without missing a beat. His gaze flicked to me, taking in my dress, my diamonds, and the defiance in my posture.
"And you must be Clare Jenkins," Vance said, offering a sickeningly warm smile. "The brilliant forensic analyst from the Minneapolis port authority. A shame to see a mind of your caliber wasted on a dying relic of the underworld."
"A relic?" I countered, tilting my chin up. "At least Leandro pays his debts with his own blood, Senator. You pay yours with other people's lives and public pension funds."
Vance’s smile twitched—just a fraction of a millimeter—revealing the viper coiled beneath the political polish.
"Careful, Ms. Jenkins," Vance whispered, leaning in so only the three of us could hear. "D.C. is an unforgiving swamp. People drown in it every day. Even women who think they’re protected by damaged beasts."
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"Touch her," Leandro snarled, stepping into Vance's space until the senator’s security detail tensed, their hands dropping toward their concealed holsters, "and I won't just ruin your campaign. I will tear your heart out of your chest on the floor of the Senate."
***
