Chapter 14: The Private Back Room at the Charity Gala
The grand ballroom of the downtown heritage foundation buzzed with the muted murmurs of wealthy patrons, the clinking of crystal champagne flutes, and the low strains of a string quartet playing Vivaldi from a raised dais. Women in silk gowns and men in immaculate tuxedos moved through the candlelit space, completely oblivious to the cold war being fought in the private rooms behind the service bar.
I wore a simple midnight-blue velvet dress, my hair pinned back in a sleek twist, my throat bare of any diamonds. Alessandro stayed just behind my shoulder as we navigated the crowded floor toward a heavy mahogany door marked Private. Two of Viktor's private guards stood outside, their broad shoulders blocking the entrance, but at a sharp nod from Alessandro, they stepped aside and pulled the door open.
Viktor sat at a circular inlaid table, swirling amber liquor in a heavy crystal tumbler. He looked older up close, his silver-streaked hair brushed back sharply, his pale eyes devoid of any warmth. He didn't stand when we entered.
"You've made quite a mess of things, Madame Sevigne," Viktor said, his voice smooth and oily. "And you, Alessandro. I would have thought you had better taste in associates."
"Save the performance, Viktor," Alessandro said, pulling out a chair for me before taking a seat opposite the table. He placed a single manila folder on the polished wood. "The ledger is safe. But you aren't getting the original."
Viktor’s gaze dropped to the folder, then flicked up to my eyes. "You think a few photocopies protect you? I can have your identity revoked before midnight. A quick call to the immigration bureau, and you're an undocumented nobody."
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"Try it," I said, leaning forward into the warm candlelight, my voice steady and clear. "And the digital archive containing every offshore account tied to your name in Marseille goes straight to federal investigators. We checked the backups an hour ago. If anything happens to us, the file deploys automatically."
Viktor’s jaw tightened. The silence in the room stretched thin, broken only by the faint strains of the string quartet filtering through the mahogany door. He looked from me to Alessandro, weighing the cost, measuring the risk. Slowly, he set his glass down on the table.
