Chapter 2 - THE FIRST BULLET
Janevra discovered that Elio had been watching her on a Thursday night.
Not romantically.
At least, that was what she told herself.
The Vieira Foundation gala occupied the top floor of a luxury hotel overlooking the Chicago River. Politicians, CEOs, surgeons, socialites, and men whose fortunes had far less respectable origins crowded beneath enormous glass chandeliers.
Janevra wore black.
She had deliberately rejected the emerald gown Elio’s stylist sent to her room.
If she was going to be displayed as Mrs. Vieira, she would at least choose the packaging.
When she entered the ballroom, Elio was speaking to three businessmen.
He stopped mid-sentence.
For one brief second, the coldness disappeared from his face.
His eyes moved over her.
Then back to her eyes.
Janevra hated the warmth that climbed into her cheeks.
Bruno noticed.
His mouth twitched.
Elio noticed Bruno noticing and immediately looked irritated.
“Mrs. Vieira.”
“Elio.”
His eyebrow lifted.
She almost smiled.
Three months of marriage and she had learned something important: very few people used Elio Vieira’s first name to his face.
She did it whenever possible.
“Your dress is different.”
“You have excellent observational skills.”
Bruno coughed into his fist to disguise a laugh.
Elio stared at her.
Then something astonishing happened.
The corner of his mouth moved.
Barely.
But Janevra saw it.
“Stay close tonight,” he said.
“Is that a husbandly request or an order from the boss?”
“Does it matter?”
“To me? Yes.”
Before he could answer, a photographer approached.
Elio’s hand settled against Janevra’s lower back.
The contact was innocent.
Her body reacted as though it were not.
She hated that too.
The photographer asked them to move closer.
Janevra did.
Elio looked down.
Their eyes met.
For one dangerous second, the ballroom disappeared.
Then a champagne glass shattered.
Elio moved before Janevra understood why.
He seized her waist and threw both of them behind a marble column.
A gunshot cracked through the ballroom.
Screams erupted.
A second bullet struck the wall where Elio had been standing.
Security men drew weapons.
Guests fell beneath tables.
Janevra’s ears rang.
Elio covered her with his body.
“Stay down.”
“What’s happening?”
“Stay down, Janevra.”
It was the first time she had heard fear in his voice.
Not fear for himself.
For her.
Another shot.
Then silence.
Bruno appeared with a handgun.
“Shooter’s moving toward the service corridor.”
Elio stood.
Janevra caught his sleeve.
“Don’t.”
He looked at her hand.
She released him immediately.
Something unreadable crossed his face.
“Bruno will take you home.”
“No.”
“Janevra.”
“You said stay close.”
“This is not the time.”
“Then perhaps you should stop giving contradictory orders.”
Even now, Bruno almost smiled.
Elio did not.
He looked furious.
And strangely alive.
Then Janevra saw blood.
“Elio.”
He followed her gaze.
A dark stain spread across the side of his white shirt.
The bullet had grazed him.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’ve done it before.”
“That doesn’t make it healthier.”
She grabbed his arm.
Elio stared at her.
“Sit down.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Bruno looked between them.
Janevra pointed toward a chair overturned behind the column.
“Sit.”
To the astonishment of everyone within earshot, Elio Vieira sat.
Janevra tore a linen napkin from a nearby table and pressed it against his side.
He inhaled sharply.
“Sorry.”
“You’re not.”
“No.”
His eyes stayed on her face.
“You’re not afraid.”
Janevra laughed once.
It sounded more bitter than she intended.
“I grew up in the Moretti family. Did you think my childhood involved ballet lessons and tea parties?”
His expression changed.
The accusation struck exactly where she intended.
Sheltered girl.
He remembered.
“So you’re still angry.”
“I expect to be angry until approximately 2047.”
Despite the chaos around them, Elio almost laughed.
Then Bruno returned.
“We caught someone.”
Elio stood immediately.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Janevra saw the transformation.
The man who had almost smiled disappeared.
The boss returned.
Cold.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
“Take my wife home.”
“Elio—”
“Please.”
One word.
Quiet.
Not an order.
Janevra stopped.
His gray eyes held hers.
“Please, Janevra.”
She nodded.
That night, she waited.
She told herself she was not waiting.
She read seventy pages of a book without absorbing one sentence.
At 2:17 a.m., headlights crossed her bedroom wall.
Janevra opened the curtains.
Elio stepped from an SUV.
He looked exhausted.
She was halfway down the staircase before realizing she had left her room.
Elio entered the foyer.
His jacket was gone.
Blood stained his shirt.
“Are you hurt?”
He looked up.
Surprise crossed his face.
“You waited.”
“No.”
“It’s two in the morning.”
“I suffer from insomnia.”
“You were asleep by eleven yesterday.”
She folded her arms.
“Apparently my insomnia began today.”
He studied her for a long moment.
Then he said, “The shooter wasn’t Santoro.”
“Who was he?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“You caught him.”
“He was carrying identification that belonged to a dead man.”
Janevra felt cold.
“Elio.”
“Go upstairs.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“Someone tried to kill you tonight.”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?”
“The first shot wasn’t aimed at me.”
Janevra remembered.
The position of the shattered glass.
The bullet hole.
Her stomach dropped.
Elio continued quietly.
“It was aimed at you.”
Silence swallowed the foyer.
Janevra looked toward the windows.
Suddenly the enormous estate did not feel secure.
It felt transparent.
“Why?”
“That is what I intend to find out.”
He started toward his study.
Janevra followed.
“Then I’m coming.”
“No.”
“I was the target.”
“Which is precisely why you’re not coming.”
“Elio.”
He stopped.
She nearly collided with him.
“I have spent my entire life,” Janevra said, “watching men make decisions about me in rooms I wasn’t allowed to enter. My father decided who I would marry. You decided what our marriage would look like. Now somebody has decided whether I should live.”
Her voice shook.
But she did not lower it.
“I’m finished standing outside the door.”
Elio stared at her.
Something shifted between them.
Not affection.
Not yet.
Respect.
He opened the study door.
“Come in.”
It was the first invitation he had ever given her into his world.
Bruno was already waiting beside the desk.
On the polished wood lay photographs recovered from the shooter.
Janevra approached.
Her breath stopped.
There were twelve photographs.
Every one showed her.
Walking through the garden.
Leaving the museum.
Entering a restaurant.
Standing outside her childhood home.
One photograph had been taken before the wedding.
Janevra picked it up.
On the back, someone had written a date.
Seven months earlier.
Before the Vieira marriage had even been arranged.
Elio took it from her.
His expression hardened.
“This didn’t start with me.”
Janevra looked at the remaining photographs.
Then she noticed something.
In the corner of one image stood a familiar man.
Watching her.
Daario Vieira.
Elio’s cousin.
May you like
And beside him was Janevra’s father.
Victoriao Moretti.
