She Kissed the Mafia Boss on a Wild Dare

The flashbulbs strobed across the marble rotunda of City Hall in a blinding, continuous blizzard of white light that looked like lightning caught inside a glass jar.

Harold Vance did not make a speech.

The seventy-year-old state comptroller, whose name had been chiseled into the dedication plaques of twenty public schools and three bridge crossings, stood paralyzed as two federal marshals in blue windbreakers ratcheted heavy carbon-steel handcuffs around his manicured wrists behind his back.

CLACK. CLACK.

Sal Moretti was hauled to his feet by two senior tactical agents, his expensive double-breasted overcoat torn at the shoulder seam, his fedora rolling across the limestone floor until it tapped against the toe of Damian Valente’s polished oxford.

Damian did not kick the hat aside.

He didn't even look down at it.

He stood three paces back from the podium, his hands resting in the pockets of his dark overcoat, his eyes fixed entirely on Amelia Carter as she gathered her mother's three black calfskin binders from the lectern.

The reporters were shouting questions in a deafening, competing roar that bounced off the four-story dome:

“Miss Carter! Did you know about the Swiss accounts during the nineteen ninety-eight audit?!”

“Mr. Valente! What is your role in the maritime cooperative?!”

“Is the federal grand jury investigating the white plains judges?!”

Amelia did not answer a single shouted question.

She tucked the binders securely beneath her left arm, smoothed the lapels of her black blazer, and walked down the grand steps of the dais into the center aisle.

Damian stepped beside her.

He did not take her arm with force; he simply matched her stride, his broad frame shielding her from the thrusting microphone booms and the frantic surge of the photographers as they moved toward the bronze double doors of the rotunda.

At the top of the exterior granite stairs overlooking City Hall Park, the autumn sun was breaking through the high gray clouds in a brilliant, blinding explosion of liquid gold, illuminating the yellow leaves of the elm trees and the sparkling spray of the central fountain.

Waiting at the foot of the steps was Sophie Brennan.

Her best friend was wearing a warm wool trench coat over dark jeans, her face scrubbed clean of the gold glitter from Friday night, her eyes red-rimmed and wide with absolute, disbelieving awe as she watched the sensible, spreadsheet-reading machine walk down the courthouse stairs beside the most feared man in New York.

Beside Sophie stood Marcus, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his mouth hanging open like a landed carp, looking as though he had just watched a quiet library assistant single-handedly capture an aircraft carrier with a wooden ruler.

Amelia stopped on the third step.

She looked at Sophie.

"Ames..." Sophie stammered, her voice barely a thread of dry air against the traffic roar of Broadway. "Marcus... Marcus said you were kidnapped by a mafia crew... we spent the whole weekend at the fifth precinct..."

Amelia reached into her pocket, pulled out a crisp, uncreased twenty-dollar bill—the exact amount Marcus had tossed onto the table at the club on Friday night—and held it out between two fingers.

Marcus didn't move. He looked at the bill as if it were coated in liquid nitrogen.

Amelia let the bill drop.

It fluttered down through the crisp morning air, landing softly on the toe of Marcus’s polished leather shoe.

"Keep the change, Marcus," Amelia said, her voice clear, musical, and sovereign in the clean autumn wind.

"The dare was paid in full."

She turned to Damian.

"Where is the car, Mr. Valente?" she asked softly.

Damian looked down at her, a slow, radiant, and terrifyingly beautiful smile touching the corners of his lips for the first time since they had met in the dark basement on Exchange Place.

He pointed with his chin toward the curb, where the black Mercedes S-Class was idling smoothly, its windows down, its interior warm, clean, and unhunted.