Chapter 5 - The Rehearsal Dinner
By Friday evening, the Moretti estate looked like a set piece from a mafia epic directed by someone with an unlimited budget and a pathological hatred of minimalism.
White hydrangeas imported from the Netherlands were massed along the stone balustrades of the terrace. Armed security guards in black tuxedos stood discreetly behind the marble pillars, their earpieces glowing with faint blue LEDs. Inside the grand ballroom, three crystal chandeliers blazed down upon eighty guests drawn from the upper echelons of New York society, state politics, and the tighter, darker circles of the North River import syndicate.
I was not among the guests.
I was upstairs in the west suite, helping Lily into a smocked yellow cotton dress that Mrs. Hargrove had mysteriously produced from an unopened box bearing a Fifth Avenue label.
“Do I have to wear the shoes?” Lily groaned, wiggling her toes inside a pair of shiny black Mary Janes that cost more than my monthly rent in Brooklyn.
“Yes, baby,” I sighed, smoothing down her hair and trying to secure her rabbit-ear hair clip with a fresh red ribbon Hargrove had cut from the same bolt of cotton as the one on the bottle. “Mr. Moretti said we have to attend the dinner. Apparently, missing an engagement celebration for the head of the family is frowned upon in certain circles.”
“Is he mad?” Lily asked.
“I don't know,” I murmured honestly. “Nobody knows what Vincent Moretti is thinking until he’s already signed the check or buried the body.”
A soft knock at the door made us both jump.
It wasn't Hargrove this time. It was Rossi—the mountain of a security chief who usually looked like he spent his weekends throwing people off drawbridges. He was holding a small, silver-wrapped jeweler’s box in his massive palm.
“Ms. Vance,” Rossi said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “Mr. Moretti asked that you and the child join the family table for the second course. Principal seating.”
I stared at him. “Principal seating? Rossi, I’m the nanny. Cassandra will have a stroke if I sit anywhere closer to the head table than the kitchen service hatch.”
Rossi’s massive lips twitched into something resembling a grim smile. “Mr. Moretti’s instructions were specific. Principal table. Right hand of the groom.”
Ten minutes later, I walked into the grand ballroom with Lily’s sticky hand gripped tightly in mine.
The room went quiet about three seconds after we crossed the threshold.
Eighty pairs of expensive, cultured eyes turned simultaneously from the string quartet in the corner to the pale kitchen maid in a simple emerald-green silk dress—another gift from the mysterious supply closet Hargrove managed—holding a three-year-old by the hand.
At the center head table, sitting beneath a massive floral arch of white roses, Vincent Moretti looked up from his wine glass.
He wore a custom-tailored midnight-blue tuxedo that made him look less like a businessman and more like a predator who had decided to dress up for the occasion. Next to him, Cassandra sat in a blinding confection of ivory satin and diamonds, her face frozen into a terrifyingly bright socialite smile that looked like it had been carved with a scalpel.
“Clara,” Vincent said, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the silent room. “You're late.”
“Traffic in the service wing was heavy, Mr. Moretti,” I said, my voice barely audible over the gentle scraping of violins.
“Sit,” he commanded, gesturing to the empty velvet chair directly to his right—the seat traditionally reserved for the groom’s mother or the most honored guest of the evening.
Cassandra’s wine glass shattered.
It didn't just slip from her fingers; she gripped the crystal stem so hard the bowl snapped cleanly in half, red Cabernet spilling across the Belgian lace tablecloth like an open wound.
“Vincent!” Cassandra gasped, leaping to her feet, her face drained of color, her eyes blazing with a furious, unhinged light. “This has gone far enough! A public spectacle—putting a domestic employee—a woman who was scrubbing our kitchen floor three days ago—at the head table in front of the district attorney and the state senator? Have you lost your absolute mind?!”
The string quartet stopped playing mid-measure.
Eighty people held their breath. You could have heard a pin drop on the marble floor from three rooms away.
Vincent didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He slowly set down his fork, picked up his linen napkin, and wiped his fingers with agonizing deliberation.
“Cassandra,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into that flat, icy register that made the air in the room feel thin.
“Don't ‘Cassandra’ me!” she shrieked, her aristocratic veneer finally cracking entirely, revealing the sharp, desperate panic underneath. “Everyone in this room knows what she is! Everyone knows she smuggled a brat into the private quarters! You’re humiliating me—you’re humiliating my family—all for a kitchen maid and a stray child!”
Vincent stood up.
He was nearly a foot taller than her, broad-shouldered and absolute. He didn't look angry; he looked like a judge pronouncing a final sentence.
“You’re right about one thing, Cassandra,” Vincent said softly.
She blinked, her breath catching. “What?”
“It is time to clear the air.” Vincent turned his head slightly, signaling Rossi with a single, subtle flick of his finger.
Two men in dark suits stepped out from behind the floral arch, not carrying guns this time, but carrying a heavy cardboard carton bearing the logo of a federal postal service and a Hoboken dry-cleaning shop.
“Last night,” Vincent continued, his gaze locking onto Cassandra with terrifying clarity, “my security team decrypted the server logs from Norah Wickham’s burner phone. Do you know whose name appeared on the billing address for the secondary off-site storage unit where three hundred cans of stolen infant formula and two months of leaked shipping manifests were being warehoused?”
Cassandra’s face went from pale to gray in less than a second.
“That’s... that’s absurd,” she whispered, her voice dropping into a ragged gasp. “You’re framing me—you’re trying to find an excuse—”
“The wire transfer came from a private account at the Cayman branch of the First National Trust,” Vincent said, his voice like the grinding of millstones. “Registered under the maiden name of your mother’s estate manager. The same man who has been handling your personal wardrobe budget since you moved into the city.”
He stepped closer to her, towering over the white satin and diamonds.
“You weren't just angry that Norah got caught, Cassandra,” Vincent said quietly. “You were terrified she would tell the federals who was paying her to leak the Pier 44 schedules in the first place.”
The ballroom erupted into a low, buzzing roar of whispers. The district attorney at table three slowly set down his napkin and began checking his watch.
May you like
Cassandra backed away until her spine hit the floral arch, her diamond earrings shaking against her neck. “You can't do this—you can't embarrass me like this—my father will—!”
“Your father’s shipping licenses were revoked by the port authority forty minutes ago,” Vincent said without blinking. “Rossi, escort Ms. Vale off the property. Make sure her bags are waiting at the front gate.”
