The Last Wolfe

Chapter Three: The Gala

The Grand Astoria Hotel rose from the heart of the city like a wedding cake, its white stone facade glowing under the soft wash of streetlights. Limousines lined the curb, their engines purring, their passengers stepping out into a river of flashing cameras and murmured greetings. The air smelled of expensive perfume and chilled champagne and the faint, sweet scent of flowers from the arrangements flanking the entrance.

Raven Wolfe stood across the street, watching.

Her black sedan was parked in a loading zone, the engine off, the windows cracked to let in the cool night air. She had been sitting there for twenty minutes, her hands gripping the steering wheel, her heart pounding against her ribs. She had no business being here. She was not wealthy. She was not connected. She was just a woman with a promotion and a boss who expected her to make an impression.

She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her hair was down tonight, dark waves falling past her shoulders, softer than her usual tight knot. Her dress was deep green, silk, borrowed from a friend who owed her a favor. Her mother's pearls rested against her collarbone, cool and familiar. She looked like she belonged. She hoped she belonged.

She stepped out of the car and walked across the street.

The lobby of the Grand Astoria was vast, its ceiling soaring three stories overhead. A crystal chandelier hung in the center, its thousands of facets catching the light and scattering it across the marble floor. Guests milled about in clusters, their voices a low hum beneath the string quartet playing in the corner.

Raven took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and moved deeper into the room. She did not know what she was looking for. She was not looking for anything specific. Her boss had told her to network, to make connections, to be seen. That was all. She was supposed to smile at the right people, shake the right hands, collect the right business cards.

She found a spot near the wall, where she could see the main entrance without being obvious about it. She sipped her champagne and scanned the crowd.

There were women in glittering gowns and men in perfectly tailored suits. There was laughter and music and the clink of glasses. There was wealth and power and the casual confidence of people who had never known hunger.

Raven felt like an impostor. She smiled anyway.

An hour passed. She talked to a woman who ran a hedge fund. She talked to a man who owned a chain of luxury hotels. She collected business cards and forgot names almost as quickly as she heard them. She was searching for nothing in particular, just passing the time until she could leave without offending her boss.

She was near the bar, reaching for another glass of champagne, when the crowd parted.

She did not know why. She did not know what caused the shift. But suddenly, there was space around her, and in that space, a man was walking toward her.

He was tall. Taller than most of the men in the room. His dark hair was swept back from his face, and his eyes were gray, flat, unrevealing. He wore a black suit, perfectly tailored, with no tie and his white shirt open at the collar. His jaw was sharp, his cheekbones high, his face carved in harsh lines that softened only when he realized she was looking at him.

He stopped a few feet away. His eyes met hers.

Raven felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing. It pressed against her chest, her throat, her skin. She forced herself to hold his gaze, to not look away, to not show any sign of weakness.

She had no idea who he was.

He had no idea who she was.

"You have been watching me all night," he said.

His voice was low, smooth, with an edge that could cut. Raven blinked, surprised by his directness.

"Have I?" she said.

"You have."

He stood close now, closer than she had realized. She could smell his cologne, something woodsy and expensive, and beneath it, the faint scent of whiskey. His eyes were gray, the same flat gray she had noticed from across the room, and they held hers with an intensity that made her want to step back.

She did not step back.

"I was watching the room," she said. "You happened to be in it."

His mouth curved slightly. Not a smile. Something smaller. Something almost curious.

"You are not like the other women here."

"How do you know?"

"Because they look at me like I am an opportunity. You look at me like I am a stranger."

Raven tilted her head. "You are a stranger."

"I am."

"Then I am looking at you appropriately."

His eyes flickered. Interest. Curiosity. The first crack in his armor.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Raven."

"Raven." He said it like he was tasting it, testing it. "I am Fenris."

She repeated it silently. Fenris. It was an unusual name. Old. Powerful. She did not recognize it.

"Nice to meet you, Fenris." She extended her hand. "I work at Sterling Investments. I am here because my boss told me to network."

He looked at her hand for a moment, then took it. His grip was firm, warm, brief.

"I am here because my father told me to attend."

"Your father?"

"Dante Vlad. The foundation is his."

Raven nodded, pretending the name meant something to her. It did not. She had never heard of Dante Vlad. She had never heard of the Vlad Foundation before her boss mentioned it.

"It is a beautiful event," she said.

"It is an obligation."

She smiled. "You do not enjoy obligations?"

"I do not enjoy pretending to care about people I do not know."

"Then why are you talking to me?"

He studied her for a long moment. His gray eyes searched her face, looking for something she could not identify.

"Because you are not pretending," he said. "You actually do not know who I am."

"I do not."

"That is refreshing."

He did not explain. He did not offer his last name or his title or the reasons why the crowd parted around him. He simply stood there, watching her, waiting for something.

Raven decided to fill the silence.

"I grew up in this city," she said. "But I have never been to an event like this. It is... overwhelming."

"It is designed to be. Overwhelming people makes them easier to manipulate."

She laughed. "That is cynical."

"It is honest."

"I am not sure those are the same thing."

His mouth curved again, that almost smile. "You are perceptive."

"I try to be."

They talked for another hour. About art, about music, about the city and its secrets. He asked her questions about her work, her life, her reasons for being at the gala. She answered carefully, giving him nothing real, nothing that could be used against her.

He did the same. He was skilled at it. She was better.

When the evening ended, he walked her to the door.

"I would like to see you again," he said.

"That might not be wise."

"Since when do you care about wisdom?"

She looked at him, at his gray eyes, at the sharp angles of his face. She did not know who he was. She did not know what he did. She did not know that his father had ordered the m******e of her family.

She knew nothing.

"I will think about it," she said.

He nodded. "That is all I ask."

She walked out into the night. The cool air hit her face, and she exhaled slowly.

She did not look back.