The Mafia Boss Pulled the Curvy Accountant Onto His Lap at the VIP Party, but the Secret in Her Purse Was Never Meant to Save Him

Part 2: “Bruno.”

“That answers almost nothing.”

To her surprise, the corner of his mouth moved.

“Mr. Castellano requests your presence at the Winter Solstice Gala tomorrow night.”

Harper tightened her hand around the door.

“I didn’t tell anyone my name.”

“No,” Bruno said. “You told us you were the only employee who accessed seven archived accounts between midnight and two in the morning. Mr. Castellano employs people who can count backward.”

He offered her the envelope through the narrow opening.

Inside was an invitation printed on heavy cream paper.

The Winter Solstice Gala.

The Grand Oak Haven Hotel.

Ten o’clock.

A handwritten note appeared beneath the formal lettering.

Bring the drive. Trust no one from your office.

Harper looked at the garment bag.

“What is that?”

“A dress.”

“I own dresses.”

“Mr. Castellano was informed the gala has a formal requirement.”

“And he knows my measurements?”

Bruno’s expression became almost apologetic.

“The tailor estimated from security footage.”

“That is the most disturbing sentence anyone has ever said to me.”

“Probably,” Bruno agreed.

Harper should have refused.

Instead, she took the dress.

The Grand Oak Haven occupied an entire corner of the Upper East Side, its stone facade glowing beneath strings of white winter lights. Black cars arrived beneath a glass canopy while photographers waited behind velvet barriers, hoping to capture senators, judges, celebrities, and men whose names rarely appeared in print.

Harper arrived at 10:16 after the subway stalled beneath the East River and her cab became trapped behind a delivery truck.

The emerald silk dress fit perfectly.

That frightened her more than if it had not.

It was elegant rather than revealing, fitted through the waist and flowing over her hips in a way that made her feel powerful instead of disguised. She wore her mother’s pearl earrings and carried the silver bag containing the flash drive.

As the ballroom doors opened, warm air washed over her, scented with champagne, pine garlands, expensive perfume, and smoke from a private cigar lounge.

The Sapphire Room was designed to make ordinary people feel insignificant. Gold columns rose toward a painted ceiling. Chandeliers cast light over tables arranged around a polished dance floor. A raised VIP section overlooked the room from behind a curved wall of dark leather booths.

Harper recognized mayors, developers, union leaders, corporate attorneys, and men she had seen in courthouse photographs.

The women beside them looked sculpted for display.

Harper felt the first stare before she had taken three steps.

Then another.

A young woman in a silver dress whispered behind her hand. A man near the bar looked Harper over and laughed softly to his companion. Someone else glanced at her invitation as though assuming it had been stolen.

Harper continued walking.

She had survived middle school cafeterias, college recruiters who assumed she lacked discipline, and corporate managers who praised her work while promoting more charming men. A ballroom full of wealthy strangers would not break her.

She was halfway to the VIP stairs when Vivian Mercer stepped into her path.

Vivian wore a backless silver gown and a diamond necklace that could have paid Harper’s mortgage for twenty years. Her blond hair was swept into an immaculate knot, and her smile carried no warmth.

“Harper?”

“Ms. Mercer.”