🥂 The Maid Who Shattered the Champagne and Saved the Mafia Boss

Chapter 06 - The Fiancée With a Gun

Clara Whitmore did not look like a woman capable of holding a gun.

That was, Lena thought, probably why men kept giving them to women like her in the first place. The rich and beautiful were allowed to appear fragile even when they were dangerous. Poor women were expected to appear dangerous just to survive being fragile.

Clara’s hands shook so badly the barrel dipped toward the carpet, rose, and dipped again.

Dmitri aimed at her chest.

Victor did not.

“Put it down,” he said.

Clara laughed under her breath. It was a ruined little sound. “You sound exactly like him.”

“Leon?”

“Your father.”

Victor went still.

Lena looked at him, but his face revealed nothing except that the wound had landed.

Clara’s eyes moved to Lena. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m getting that a lot tonight.”

A startled flicker crossed Clara’s face. Almost admiration. Then fear returned.

“I gave you the napkin because you needed to run. Not because you needed to follow him into the oldest trap in this building.”

Victor asked, “Why did Leon call Lena?”

“Because he wanted you to see her doubt you.” Clara swallowed. “He’s very good at arranging people around a truth until it looks like a lie.”

Dmitri said, “Drop the gun.”

Clara’s gaze snapped to him. “If I drop it, your men take me back to the ballroom. Leon’s people are still there. I don’t make it to morning.”

Victor’s voice lowered. “Whose gun is it?”

“My father’s.”

“Your father is dead.”

“No,” Clara said. “My father has been dead to me for eighteen years. That’s different.”

The air seemed to thicken.

Lena understood before Victor did. Maybe because women learned to hear certain silences. Maybe because Clara looked too young suddenly, not thirty-two in satin, but a child standing in a hallway she should never have entered.

“Leon is your father,” Lena said.

Clara closed her eyes.

Victor turned toward her slowly.

Leon Mercer had been his adviser for fifteen years. His father’s man first, then his. Elegant, loyal, patient Leon, who remembered birthdays and debts and which city officials required cash versus favors.

And Clara, chosen by society pages as Victor’s likely future wife, had been placed at his table from the beginning.

“He told me my mother died in a crash,” Clara said. “He said your father arranged it because she knew too much. He said if I got close to you, I could learn what the Romanos had buried. He said I would finally have proof.”

“Did you?” Victor asked.

Her mouth trembled. “I learned he had lied about almost everything except the burial.”

Lena held June Hart’s badge tighter.

Clara looked at the black metal box. “My mother was not killed by your father directly. She was used by Leon to blackmail him. June Hart saw enough to understand that.”

“What did my mother see?” Lena asked.

Clara shook her head. “Not here.”

Victor said, “Then where?”

“The room under the ballroom.”

Dmitri glanced at Victor.

“There is no room under the ballroom,” he said.

Clara smiled sadly. “That’s what makes it useful.”

A phone vibrated.

All four of them froze.

It was Clara’s.

She looked down at the screen and went pale.

Victor took one step forward. “Who?”

She turned the screen so they could see.

Leon Mercer calling.

Dmitri reached for it.

Victor stopped him.

“Answer.”

Clara shook her head. “No.”

“Answer,” Victor repeated. “And tell him you’re alone.”

Her eyes filled. “He’ll know.”

Victor looked at Lena. “Then give it to someone he underestimates.”

Lena stared at him. “Excuse me?”

Victor held out his hand for the phone.

Clara gave it to Lena instead.

The screen vibrated in her palm.

Lena had answered wealthy guests, hotel managers, angry brides, and one drunk ambassador who had mistaken her for his third wife. Still, her thumb shook when she pressed accept.

“Miss Whitmore?” Leon asked.

Lena pitched her voice small and frightened. “No. It’s Lena.”

Silence.

Then Leon laughed softly.

“My dear girl. Victor is using you already?”

Lena looked at Victor.

His eyes were on hers, steady.

“No,” she said. “I’m using him.”

For one beautiful second, Leon had nothing to say.

Then his voice sharpened. “Where is Clara?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”