Chapter 2 - THE RED WINE
The wine came down before Billy Ror understood what was happening.
One second, she was carrying a tray past the head table of the Grand Ballroom at the Windmir, one of Boston’s finest hotels. The next, dark red wine ran through her hair, over her cheek and neck, and down the front of her uniform.
The glass slipped from her hand.
It shattered against the stone floor.
Billy dropped to one knee.
Her right palm came down on a shard.
She heard herself draw breath.
Standing over her was Sabine Voss, the woman whose face had appeared that evening on three hundred invitations and seventeen posters around the city.
Sabine still held the stem of the glass.
She did not blink.
“You need to learn what you are.”
She said it loudly enough for the ballroom to hear.
Three hundred guests turned their heads.
Camera lenses lowered toward Billy.
No one stood.
For three beats, the only sound was wine dripping from Billy’s chin onto the marble. The scent of expensive merlot mingled with the metallic tang of blood seeping from her right palm.
She did not cry out. She did not raise her head to meet Sabine’s eyes.
She focused on the shattered crystal.
Never look guests directly in the face.
Never speak unless spoken to.
Never argue.
Gideon Puit rushed forward, his face pale with horror. He did not ask if Billy was injured. He turned immediately to Sabine, bowing slightly.
“Miss Voss, my deepest apologies,” Puit stammered. “The server will be replaced immediately. Please, allow us to—”
“I don’t want her replaced,” Sabine said coldly, cutting him off. Her voice carried across the silent room like breaking glass. “I want her to clean it up. Right now. On her hands and knees.”
Puit froze.
Marisol took a frantic step forward from the edge of the room. “Sir, her hand is bleeding—”
“I said clean it up,” Sabine repeated, her gaze locked onto Billy.
Billy did not move. She felt the warm blood pooling in her palm, mixing with the wine on the floor.
She knew why Sabine was doing this. She knew exactly what Sabine had seen on the name tag. B. Ror.
It wasn't a mistake. It wasn't an accident.
Then, the heavy oak doors at the back of the ballroom opened.
A man entered.
The Windmir addressed him as chairman.
Men in Boston’s North End used another kind of title entirely.
Rafe Santangelo stopped in the middle of the aisle.
He was tall, wearing a charcoal suit that cost more than Billy made in a year. His presence changed the air pressure in the room. The murmuring stopped completely. Even the camera crew lowered their equipment, suddenly terrified of recording him.
He walked slowly down the center aisle.
He looked first at Sabine Voss, the woman he had been planning to marry.
Then he looked at Billy, kneeling among the broken glass, blood dripping from her hand.
“What is happening here?” Rafe asked. His voice was quiet, but it carried to every corner of the vast room.
Sabine’s posture shifted instantly. The cruel edge vanished, replaced by a practiced, elegant poise. She stepped toward him, placing a manicured hand on his arm.
“Rafe, darling,” Sabine sighed softly. “The server was clumsy. She spilled wine on my dress. She’s just cleaning it up.”
Rafe looked at Sabine’s dress.
The reverse-beaded gown was flawless. Not a single drop of wine marred the fabric.
He looked back at Billy. Her uniform was soaked. Her hair was matted to her neck.
“Gideon,” Rafe said, not taking his eyes off Billy.
Puit practically ran to Rafe’s side. “Yes, Mr. Santangelo?”
“Why is my fiancée lying to me in front of three hundred people?” Rafe asked casually.
Sabine’s hand dropped from his arm. The color drained from her perfectly contoured face.
“Rafe—” she started.
“Silence,” Rafe said, not raising his voice.
He stepped around Sabine and stopped directly in front of Billy.
He crouched down, ignoring the wine staining his expensive trousers, bringing himself to eye level with the kneeling server.
“Let me see your hand,” Rafe said gently.
Billy hesitated. Never speak unless spoken to.
She slowly turned her right palm upward. A jagged piece of crystal was embedded near the base of her thumb. Blood welled around it, bright red against her pale skin.
Rafe’s jaw tightened. He pulled a pristine white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and wrapped it firmly around her injured hand.
“What is your name?” Rafe asked.
Billy looked up. For the first time all night, she looked a guest directly in the eyes.
“Billy,” she said quietly. “Billy Ror.”
Rafe didn't react to the name. He stood up, offering his hand to help her rise.
Billy took it, ignoring the sharp sting in her palm. She stood, her wet uniform clinging to her skin, facing the man who owned the hotel, the catering company, and half the city.
Rafe turned back to Puit.
“Take her to my private office. Have a doctor meet her there immediately,” Rafe ordered.
“Yes, sir. Right away,” Puit nodded frantically, signaling for Marisol to escort Billy out.
“And Gideon,” Rafe added, his voice dropping into a deadly, quiet register.
“Sir?”
May you like
Rafe turned slowly to look at Sabine.
“Cancel the rest of the dinner. Clear the room. And make sure Miss Voss finds her own way home tonight.”
