Page 17 of Her Billionaire Protector

I flush with shame and rage. “No.” I’ve fucked up again, the wrong guy for this job. I could have bought out all of HBP toguard her. But I wanted her too much to allow even one other man near.

I wasn’t thinking clearly. I never do with her. Now she might be dead.

And didn’t I kill her with my own selfish recklessness.

“She agreed to go on record.”

I stop breathing. “Is she alive?”

“So far. Our man says she’s attending the fundraiser down at Morrow tonight.”

Their man. I hoped he was right. Harvey’s driver, turned HPG-informant. He’d dropped off some of Harvey’s account passwords here a few days ago, and I’d passed them on to HPG, hoping they’d do a broad electronic sweep and cinch up whatever they needed to deliver to the DA in 24 hours or less.

But Vance refused to access them. He wanted to stop short of gathering illegal evidence.

Typical. The laws protect the criminals. He’s right, of course, but I’m out of my mind with worry for Mia.

I don’t care what’s right anymore. I want these monsters behind bars.

“I’ll be there.”

“Sources say, so will Martin Velnias.”

“Got it.”

I slow down to scope out the location, grateful for the tint of the SUV’s windows.

The Morrow Museum is done up in a garish mix of red, white, and black. Balloons, streamers, spotlights pointing at the sky. I park a few streets down and approach from behind. HPG has a decent presence, and Vance’s man in catering sneaks me in,walks me through the makeshift kitchen in the basement so I can keep my gun in its holster and avoid the metal detectors beyond the red carpet out front.

He looks at me like I’m already dead. Word about Martin Velnias must be out.

Typical Harvey Blagas: he waits for a major event and then brings his own lamb to the slaughter. It was another obvious giveaway that all the other murders were arranged by the Assistant DA: they were covert.

Not this one. Harvey was planning to have Mia gunned down live in front of theglitteratiof Halo City.

I straighten my bowtie and make my way through the crowd, scanning for her, feeling my way around. My body usually knows she’s near before my eyes do.

The help are dressed like court jesters, humiliating getups complete with jingling jester hats. One limps up to me and offers me a plate of ludicrous sculptural hors d'oeuvres, so I pop one into my mouth with a nod to its suffering deliverer.

I keep going, working my way through the gala. They’ve brought in a DJ, and his first few test beats echo through the museum's rotunda to engulf us all. A few of the older patrons exchange glances. It’s a sharp contrast to the grand impressionist paintings that line the entrance.

I make my way around until I’m sure I’ve seen every face in the crowd.

No Harvey. No Mia.

Of course, as soon as Harvey sees me, we’re in trouble. He’ll recognize me from those days in East Greenwich. He was a two-bit fentanyl trafficker back then. Got half the county hooked, or at least, that’s what it seemed like. While he stayed clean, stayed free, no matter how hard I tried to take him down. That first wave of crime hit the hardest. Our tiny town hadn’t known a fatal robbery before Hailey got shot.

Before I failed to protect her.

And then, with Harvey in place, things got worse and worse.

I stand still and strain to listen for Mia’s voice before the DJ goes full blast and drowns out all sound. A scantily-clad attendee in a masquerade-style mask and sky-high heels lingers in front of me. I avoid her gaze and keep scanning the crowd.

She’s not here.

Maybe all this was a diversion, and Harvey’s slitting her throat across town. My heart beats too fast, my temples pounding hard with the horror of losing her to him, losing her forever. I have to get moving, to channel my rage and pain into some forward motion. I sweep the museum in widening circles, pretending to look at the paintings, straining to hear the conversations around me in case there’s anything worth overhearing.

But it’s all the bored, banal small talk of the wealthy. No mention of Harvey.