culprit was behind bars, and anyone who’d worked with him was dead.
It was time to relax.
* * *
Alex Ebner, assistant to the man whispered about only as The Duke, settled himself in the front seat of the black limousine. “The women are all there, just as you suggested they would be.”
“And the men?”
“Stuck to them, as you also suspected.”
“You speak of my stepson as well?”
Alex thought about his casual stroll through the ballroom. “He hasn’t left the baker’s side.”
“Excellent.”
Alex waited, as he always did. He was deeply loyal, and he was more than willing to wait as The Duke determined whatever came next. He’d been raised in the old ways, and he took pride in that. Authority. Leadership. Power.
They had value—they still had value—and he was content to follow his leader.
Those traits he prized also came with a price. He understood that—had been raised to understand it—and it was his job to stay in the background and ensure the toll never became too taxing.
In exchange, he was paid handsomely. He had time off. And, most important, his family was cared for in the lap of luxury back in the homeland.
“What about the coordinator? The sleek one who gives orders?”
“Hard at work. She just dealt with the little matter in the lobby.”
“Is she followed?”
“Baldwin’s grandson stays close to her, but she keeps shaking him off. It’s humorous to watch.”
“Then she’s the one. Violet Richardson.”
Alex nodded. “She’s got the least restrictions and moves about as she pleases.”
He’d gotten close several times and had nearly snagged the woman, but each time she’d managed a swift turn to elude him. Her apartment had proven equally challenging, the elegant home in one of Dallas’s newest high-rise buildings sporting state-of-the-art security and surveillance.
They’d moved fully underground at this point, and it was no use risking that. His boss had planned well, though. Alex considered the ease with which they were released from jail and the speed with which they’d gone to ground at The Duke’s hidden property.
The Duke had another name—one well-known in Dallas circles. Tripp Lange was one of the city’s wealthiest men, his riches earned through a combination of hard work and maniacal focus that had moved him from poor immigrant to success.
But that success had come with a price.
They’d still not managed to uncover the location of Tripp’s wife, Diana, despite extensive digging. Her son had whisked her away as he closed in on Lange, and no amount of prodding and poking any of Lange’s contacts in the Dallas PD had managed to uncover her whereabouts.
Tripp wanted the rubies and he wanted his wife back. Violet Richardson and her relationships with the rest of her little wedding troupe were the key to securing both.
“You’ve checked the egress points. You know where you want to take her.”
“It’s all prepared.”
“Then move ahead.”
* * *
Max couldn’t shake the sense that something was out of his reach. He knew that sense—and trusted it to the very depths of his being—which was why he kept up a continuous walk of the perimeter of the ballroom.
The wedding had technically entered its last hour, and he was counting down the minutes to getting them all out of there. He didn’t care if Violet fought him like a she-cat. He was dragging her out the moment they kicked the last guest toward the hotel elevators, or what would likely be a drunken, snaking taxi line. She could come back in the morning and manage any required follow-up.
Things always looked better in daylight.
Which was a fallacy, he well knew. He’d spent many an op during his time in the Army Corps of Engineers in broad daylight and an equal number in those silent hours after midnight. Both could do irreparable damage.
He passed the open ballroom doors, his gaze alighting on the bar, still two and three deep with wedding guests. The image of the guy on the couch nagged at him, and Max headed for the harried row of bartenders still mixing drinks.
A manager he’d noted earlier had added to his duties by bar-backing, and he’d just arrived with two fresh bottles of liquid courage. Max waited until the man logged the liquor before waving him over.
“Hey man, I know you’re busy. I need to ask you something.”
“You’re with the planners, right?” The guy offered a tired smile before he stuck out his hand. “Zach Turner. We do a heck of a lot of events with Elegance and Lace, and they run a smooth party.”
“A rather wild one, if the fact your bartenders haven’t stopped serving is any indication.”
Zach tossed a smile over his shoulder. “Wild, yes. Great tips, an even bigger yes.”
“Did you notice the man out here earlier? Older than the frat boys in the wedding party but not an old relative, if you know what I mean?”
“Elegant guy? Sort of blended in if you didn’t look too hard.” Zach snapped his fingers. “Saw him on the couch over there just before that brawl lit up.”
“That’s the one.”
Max waited another few beats, curious to see if the man made the same connections he had before he inadvertently led the witness.
“Odd guy. He mingled for a bit, talking up the wedding party. I kept an eye on him for a while, not sure if he was hitting on the crowd or trying to pick a few pockets.”
At what Max could only assume was a wash of shock and surprise on his face, Zach continued. “Oh yeah, it happens way more often than you think. People come to a nice event and no one thinks too much about their wallets and purses. But old Uncle Nicky or crazy Aunt Sally sure as hell do.”
Max shook his head, the shock fading into that strange sort of acceptance that came with seeing far too much. “People are an endless surprise.”
“Always. But I’ve been doing this for nearly thirty years. I can usually pick out Cousin Sticky Fingers at twenty paces. Guy gave me an odd vibe, but not a sticky one.”
“What sort of vibe did he give you?”
Zach’s dark gaze narrowed before awareness lit him up like a lightning strike. “You concerned the fight had some chemical enhancement?”
“Yep. No doubt about it. The paramedics didn’t say much, but it was all over the guy’s blown pupils and dead faint to the floor.”
“Well, hell.” Zach gestured toward the long hallway that extended off the ballroom lobby. “Let me hook you up with house security.”
* * *
Violet drifted through her various roles as the wedding wound down. She confirmed with Lilah the top layer of cake was already preserved for the couple’s first anniversary, while the rest of the cake was sliced and individually packaged and waiting for guests to take as they departed. She smiled as the DJ counted off the number of songs left until the big finale, a slow, torchy number that would send the happy couple off on their week-long honeymoon. And she got a full update from the caterer on where they stood on a count of the bar bill.
And silently credited the family’s foresight to go with a flat price per head.
While she appreciated the hearty flow of liquor would no doubt leave a horde of satisfied partygoers in its wake, she immediately shifted her direction to confirm