Chapter 4 - The Hudson GalaI hadn't wanted to go to New York.
My archivist firm had spent six months restoring a rare collection of 18th-century medical manuscripts for the Hudson Children’s Foundation, and the foundation’s board had insisted I attend the annual fundraising gala to present the collection. It was a high-society event—five hundred guests, black-tie, hosted at the Grand Hyatt Ballroom in Midtown Manhattan.
I had convinced myself it was safe. It had been five years. Manhattan was a city of eight million people. Gabriel operated in elite political and corporate circles, but he rarely attended children’s charity events.
Besides, the boys were five now. They were excited to wear their tiny black tuxedos and velvet bowties.
"You look pretty, Mom," Ben said, clutching my hand as we walked into the grand ballroom.
The room was blindingly bright. Masses of white orchids hung from crystal chandeliers, and a live string quartet played soft classical music near the stage. Waiters in white gloves moved between huddles of hedge-fund managers, real estate tycoons, and politicians.
I was standing near a marble pillar, holding a glass of sparkling water, when Ben pulled hard on my sleeve.
"Mom, look."
"What is it, sweetie?" I asked, leaning down.
Ben pointed his small finger straight across the crowded dance floor, toward a private VIP alcove reserved for the event's primary donors.
“That’s the man in the picture.”
My blood ran instantly cold.
I stood up slowly, my heart slamming against my ribs with such violence I felt dizzy. I followed my son's finger.
Standing beneath the central crystal chandelier, holding a glass of scotch, was Gabriel Cross.
He was thirty-eight now. Older. Broader across the shoulders. His dark hair was silvering slightly at the temples, giving him an even more formidable, sovereign air. He wore a bespoke charcoal tuxedo that fit his imposing frame perfectly. He was listening to a city councilman speak, his face a mask of terrifying, composed boredom.
Beside him, her arm looped intimately through his, was Serena Vale.
She was stunning. Her blonde hair was swept up in an intricate diamond-pinned chignon, wearing an emerald gown that screamed old money and absolute privilege.
I grabbed the boys' hands immediately. "We're leaving. Now."
"Mom, wait—" Henry protested, but before I could turn them toward the exit doors, Julian stepped out from behind my skirt to get a better look at the man.
Gabriel’s sharp, instinctual gaze—always scanning a room for threats—flicked toward the sudden movement near the marble pillar.
His eyes locked onto Julian.
Gabriel froze.
He stopped mid-sentence. The city councilman kept talking, but Gabriel didn't hear a word. His gray-green eyes narrowed as he stared at the little boy standing fifty feet away.
Then, Julian spoke, his clear five-year-old voice carrying through a sudden lull in the string quartet's music: "That's the man in the picture!"
Gabriel heard him.
His head snapped violently toward us. His gaze traveled from Julian to Henry, then to Ben, who was cowering behind my silk dress.
Dark hair. Gray-green eyes. The stubborn crease between three identical pairs of eyebrows.
Gabriel’s face drained of every drop of color. The man who had faced down federal prosecutors, rival mob bosses, and executioners without flinching took a half-step backward, his scotch glass tilting dangerously in his hand.
"What picture?" Gabriel asked. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the hum of the ballroom like a blade.
May you like
Serena turned to see what he was looking at. When her eyes landed on me and the three boys, her face turned a sickly, translucent white. She gasped, her grip on Gabriel's arm tightening so hard her knuckles turned yellow.
Gabriel ignored her completely. He began walking toward us.
