Chapter 9 - The Engagement Contract
I showed the photograph to Harlan before I showed it to Dominic.
That was deliberate.
The longer I spent around the Moretti family, the more I understood that information became currency the moment they touched it.
I wanted at least one person with a badge to see the evidence before money, loyalty, or family history had a chance to reshape it.
Harlan enlarged the image on my phone.
"That's definitely your medal?"
"Scratch under the ribbon hook."
I pointed.
"I dropped it on a locker-room floor when I was seventeen."
He zoomed in.
A tiny crescent mark showed near the edge.
"Okay."
"And the key?"
"No idea."
"Could it be a safe-deposit key?"
"Possibly."
"Storage locker?"
"Possibly."
"Can detectives say anything besides possibly?"
"When attorneys are around, absolutely not."
Despite myself, I smiled.
Then the smile vanished.
"I am going to the gala."
"No."
"That wasn't a request."
"Then my answer isn't a negotiation."
"They have something that belonged to my father."
"They want you to believe that."
"They have my medal."
"Which proves somebody stole from your apartment."
"Exactly."
"And whoever did that wants you at a crowded event controlled by the Whitmore family."
"Which is why you should be there too."
Harlan gave me a look.
"Police do not attend charity galas because somebody sends a threatening text."
"Rich people really have thought of everything."
"Avery."
"I'm going."
He leaned back in his chair.
We were sitting in a coffee shop across from the hotel where Linda was resting.
He looked older in daylight.
"Then you do exactly what I say."
"That depends what you say."
"You do not go alone."
"Fine."
"You do not confront Charles Whitmore."
"Less fine."
"You do not touch anything you think is evidence."
"I'm noticing a theme."
"And you wear a recording device."
I stared at him.
"You have one?"
"I can get one."
"Legal?"
"Illinois is an all-party consent state in many private contexts, but there are exceptions and nuances, which is why I'm not asking you to secretly record a private confession for court."
He held up one hand before I could argue.
"I'm asking you to wear a safety transmitter so my team can hear if you're in danger."
"That's less exciting."
"My goal is specifically to make your evening less exciting."
It failed.
Dominic arrived at the coffee shop ten minutes later after Harlan called him.
He sat down, saw the photograph, and became very still.
"Where did you get this?"
"Text."
"From whom?"
"Unknown number."
"And you intend to go."
"Yes."
He looked at Harlan.
"You told her no?"
"Repeatedly."
"Good."
"I also told him no," I said.
Dominic rubbed his jaw.
"Of course you did."
"Your support is overwhelming."
He studied the gala invitation displayed beneath the text.
The Whitmore Foundation's annual winter benefit would take place at the Chicago Cultural Center.
Black tie.
Five hundred guests.
Politicians, executives, hospital donors, reporters, and enough security to make a president jealous.
Vanessa was listed as honorary chair.
Dominic Moretti was listed as presenting sponsor.
I looked at him.
"You're going."
"I was."
"Past tense?"
"I had planned to cancel."
"Don't."
"Why?"
"Because whoever sent this expects me to appear."
"That is an argument for staying away."
"If I stay away, they keep the medal and whatever the key opens."
Dominic looked at Harlan.
"You really can't stop her?"
Harlan took a sip of coffee.
"Legally?"
"Yes."
"No."
"Physically?"
I looked at Dominic.
"Choose your next sentence carefully."
Harlan coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.
Dominic ignored him.
"Then you go with me."
"No."
"You just agreed not to go alone."
"I can go with police."
"A police escort at a Whitmore gala will announce exactly why you're there."
I hated that he was right.
"What are you suggesting?"
"You attend as my guest."
I stared at him.
"Absolutely not."
"Why?"
"Because forty-eight hours ago I was delivering food to your house in disposable gloves your fiancée made me buy."
"Which is exactly why nobody will expect you to walk through the front entrance beside me."
That was also annoyingly logical.
Harlan looked between us.
"It gives her access without putting her on a service corridor."
I turned on him.
"Whose side are you on?"
"The side with fewer blind cameras."
I crossed my arms.
"Fine."
Dominic nodded.
"Fine."
"I need a dress."
"Handled."
"No."
"Avery."
"I can buy my own dress."
"With what?"
The question was not cruel.
That made it worse.
I stared at him.
He immediately regretted it.
"That came out wrong."
"It came out accurate."
I stood.
"Which is why I hate it."
I walked out before either man could follow.
An hour later, Linda solved the dress problem by calling my cousin Tasha, who owned a resale boutique in Oak Park.
Tasha arrived with four garment bags and enough curiosity to power the electrical grid.
"You are attending a billionaire mafia charity gala with the man whose fiancée slapped you?"
"When you say it like that, it sounds unhealthy."
"There is no healthy way to say it."
Linda sat on the hotel bed pretending not to enjoy herself.
"Try the green one."
"Mom, this isn't prom."
"Prom was cheaper."
The green dress fit.
It was dark emerald, simple through the waist, long enough to be formal without making me feel disguised as somebody else.
Tasha looked at me in the mirror.
"You look dangerous."
"That's because she is," Linda said.
I met Mom's eyes in the reflection.
For a second, I saw the version of myself she remembered.
Not tired.
Not counting bills.
Not apologizing for taking up space.
Just Avery.
That evening, Dominic picked me up at seven.
He got out of the car when he saw me.
Then he forgot whatever sentence he had planned.
I noticed.
"Don't make it weird."
"I wasn't going to."
"Good."
"You look—"
"Dominic."
"Prepared."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Excellent recovery."
He offered his arm.
I ignored it and got into the car.
During the drive downtown, he handed me a folder.
"What's this?"
"The Whitmore engagement agreement."
I stared at him.
"Your what?"
"My engagement to Vanessa is partly contractual."
"Romance is thriving."
"Our families have joint holdings."
"So you proposed to merge spreadsheets."
"Essentially."
I opened the folder.
The agreement was not a marriage license.
It was a corporate voting arrangement tied to Moretti Development and Whitmore Infrastructure.
If Dominic married Vanessa, a joint holding company would control several major construction assets.
If the engagement ended before a specific refinancing date, Whitmore could trigger a debt provision worth hundreds of millions.
I looked up.
"She can hurt your company if you leave her."
"Yes."
"That's why you tolerate her."
His jaw tightened.
"I tolerated more than I should have."
"That's not an answer."
"It is the only one I'm giving tonight."
I flipped another page.
A clause listed legacy liabilities from older freight companies.
Moretti Logistics appeared there.
"This agreement covers claims dating back more than ten years."
"Yes."
"Including the period when my father died."
"Yes."
I looked at him.
"Vanessa's marriage to you could bury old liabilities under a merged company."
"That is one interpretation."
"It's the obvious interpretation."
"Now you understand why I canceled the signing scheduled for Friday."
I stared.
"You canceled it?"
"This morning."
"Does Vanessa know?"
"She does now."
"How did she react?"
He looked out the window.
"Three broken glasses and a threat to destroy me."
"Romance really is thriving."
He smiled despite himself.
Then his phone buzzed.
He read the message and the smile disappeared.
"What?"
"Marco found Elliot Crane."
I sat forward.
"Where?"
"At the gala."
The car turned onto Michigan Avenue.
The Cultural Center glowed ahead beneath winter lights.
Hundreds of people climbed the steps.
Cameras flashed near the entrance.
I felt the old medal photograph like a weight in my pocket.
"Then let's go ask him why he put a bracelet in my bag."
Dominic looked at me.
"We don't know that he did."
"We know he lied about me attacking him."
"Stay near me."
"Don't ruin the evening before it starts."
The car stopped.
A doorman opened my door.
I stepped onto the red carpet.
Reporters immediately noticed Dominic beside me.
Then they noticed I was not Vanessa.
The questions began.
"Mr. Moretti, who is your guest?"
"Where is Ms. Whitmore?"
"Has the engagement ended?"
Dominic put one hand lightly at my back and guided me through the doors.
Inside, under the enormous Tiffany dome, Vanessa Whitmore stood at the top of the staircase.
She wore silver.
She was smiling.
May you like
And around her throat hung my father's missing gold medal.
