Chapter 4 - Blood and Silk at the Harvest Gala
The gunfight at the logistics terminal had ended within six minutes.
Damon’s private tactical unit had eliminated the three snipers positioned on the opposite warehouse roof.
Garrett Vance, however, had slipped through the underground utility tunnel before the perimeter could be sealed.
He was in the wind.
Now, twenty-four hours later, San Antonio was holding its breath.
The annual Harvest Moon Charity Gala at the historic St. Anthony Hotel was underway.
The gala was the one night each year when the city’s political elite, business moguls, and underground bosses mingled in black-tie attire under crystal chandeliers.
Anton Kesler was on the guest list.
Damon had refused to hide in a bunker.
Instead, he had arrived in a midnight-black tuxedo, looking like an emperor daring his enemies to strike.
And on his arm was Kora Whitlock.
Kora wore a floor-length emerald silk gown that Damon had sent to her apartment with a security detail that morning.
Her dark hair was swept into an elegant chignon secured with Walter’s antique silver hairpins.
Around her throat rested a simple platinum chain.
As they stepped into the grand ballroom, the murmur of two hundred wealthy guests died down instantly.
Heads turned.
Eyes widened.
Six weeks earlier, Kora had worn a five-dollar plastic crown at a fruit market and joked about becoming the mafia boss’s queen.
Tonight, the most feared man in South Texas was escorting her through a sea of trembling billionaires.
Ros Delgado, who was attending as part of the market’s charity vendor delegation, gasped from behind a champagne flute.
Kora caught Ros’s eye and offered a tiny, discreet wink.
“You walk like a queen,” Damon whispered beside her ear, his hand firm and warm against the small of her back.
“I feel like target practice in silk,” Kora replied under her breath.
“Keep your chin up,” Damon murmured.
“Let them wonder how many secrets you hold.”
A man stepped out from the VIP lounge near the orchestra.
Anton Kesler was fifty years old, dressed in a silver-gray tuxedo with slicked-back gray hair and cold, reptilian eyes.
He carried two glasses of vintage champagne and smiled with teeth that looked too white to be real.
“Damon,” Kesler purred, stopping three feet away.
“I heard there was a small plumbing accident at your freight office yesterday.”
“I’m delighted to see you survived the leak.”
Damon did not take the champagne.
“My plumbing is cleaner than ever, Anton,” Damon replied smoothly.
“I recently hired an expert to locate the rot.”
Kesler’s gaze shifted slowly to Kora.
His eyes trailed over her emerald dress and fixed onto the silver hairpins in her hair.
“Ah,” Kesler said with a mocking chuckle.
“The little watchmaker’s daughter from Riverstone.”
“I heard you have a knack for finding things that don't belong.”
Kora did not back down.
She stepped half an inch forward, her gaze locking onto the lapel of Kesler’s tuxedo.
Pinned to his silk lapel was a gold boutonnière holder.
The miniature screw holding the clasp in place was an aluminum alloy shim—coated in the faint sheen of citrus solvent.
“I don't just find things, Mr. Kesler,” Kora said calmly.
“I notice when a cheap copy is trying to pretend it’s authentic.”
Kesler’s smile vanished for half a second before he forced a low chuckle.
“A sharp tongue on a pretty girl is a dangerous luxury, Damon.”
“Enjoy the festival while it lasts.”
Kesler turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd near the terrace.
Kora watched his departure.
Her paramedic instincts were screaming in her skull.
“Damon,” she whispered urgently.
“Kesler isn't here to negotiate.”
“He’s wearing the same alloy screw Garrett used.”
“Where is Garrett?”
Damon scanned the perimeter.
His head of security signaled from the mezzanine with a sharp shake of his head.
Garrett had not entered through the front doors.
“I need to check the service corridors,” Kora whispered.
“I know the kitchen layout of this hotel from when my father repaired the grandfather clock in the lobby.”
“No,” Damon commanded, grabbing her arm.
“You stay by my side.”
“If you leave the ballroom with me, Kesler will know we’re hunting him,” Kora argued.
“I can slip through the banquet hall toward the green service doors.”
Before Damon could stop her, a sudden power surge killed the ballroom lights.
The crystal chandeliers plunged into pitch darkness.
Women screamed.
Glasses shattered across marble tiles.
Emergency strobes began flashing red along the walls.
Damon reached for Kora, but a heavy body collided with him in the chaos.
A gunshot echoed through the hall, sparking a blind panic as hundreds of guests rushed toward the main foyer.
In the strobe-lit confusion, Kora backed toward the kitchen exit.
A gloved hand reached out from the shadow of the service pantry.
Before she could scream, a heavy cloth soaked in chloroform clamped down over her nose and mouth.
Kora fought with everything she had, driving her heel into her attacker’s shin.
A man grunted in pain.
It was Stefan Maro, Kesler’s chief executioner.
“Sleep, little queen,” Stefan hissed in her ear.
The smell of the chemical filled her lungs.
May you like
The flashing red strobes blurred into blackness.
The last thing Kora saw before collapsing was Damon Vascari tearing through the screaming crowd with a gun in his hand, his eyes burning with absolute terror.
