Chapter 9 - The Meeting at Table Fourteen
Inside the ivory-paneled anteroom of the private lounge, sitting on a velvet settee beneath a gilded mirror, was Clara Vescari.
At thirty-one, she possessed the same fierce, aristocratic bone structure that defined the Vescari lineage: high, pale cheekbones, dark chestnut hair swept into an elegant chignon, and wide, intelligent hazel eyes that were currently rimmed with crimson tears. She had kicked off her evening heels, her emerald silk gown pooled around her bare feet, her hands clutching a damp linen towel against her mouth as she stared at the door in terrified anticipation.
When the mahogany panel swung inward, she lunged upward, her fingers curling into claws, ready to fight for her life.
Then, she stopped.
Her breath left her lungs in a sharp, staggering sob.
"Mommy!" Millie chirped, kicking her small feet against Lorenzo’s vest. "Look! I found him! He has the snake on his neck, just like you said!"
"Millie..." Clara wept, falling to her knees on the Persian runner, her arms reaching outward with frantic, disbelieving desperation. "Oh God... Millie!"
Lorenzo stepped into the room.
He lowered his tall frame smoothly, setting the little girl gently onto the carpet. Millie took two joyful, bounding strides across the runner and threw her arms around her mother’s neck, burying her face into Clara’s emerald silk.
Clara clutched her daughter against her chest, kissing her hair, her forehead, her cheeks, her shoulders shaking with violent, gasping sobs of pure, unadulterated maternal relief. She looked up from the child’s curls, her hazel eyes meeting Lorenzo’s steady, unblinking gray gaze.
"You came," Clara whispered, her voice cracking with fifteen years of silence. "I thought... I thought your father had burned my name from the family Bible."
"My father died four years ago, Clara," Lorenzo said softly, his voice echoing off the mirrors. "And I don't burn my blood."
He reached out his right hand, his calloused thumb gently wiping away a tear that had settled on his cousin’s cheekbone. His touch was warm, steady, and immovable as the granite foundations beneath their feet.
"Did Carter touch you?" Lorenzo asked.
The question was quiet, but the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees in a fraction of a second.
Clara shook her head, pulling Millie closer into her lap. "No. He cornered me by the coat check. He told me he had two men watching the private school in Baton Rouge. He said if I didn't bring the title deeds to his table before the midnight toast, he would take her from the car."
Lorenzo straightened his back.
He turned his head toward the arched doorway that opened onto the grand balcony overlooking the ballroom floor. Down below, the master of ceremonies had just stepped up to the microphone, his amplified voice booming across the crystal chandeliers:
"Ladies and gentlemen! In five minutes, we begin our live benefactors' auction, led by the chairman of the Gulf Maritime Trust, Mr. Julian Carter!"
A polite, thunderous roar of applause rolled through the cavernous ballroom below.
Lorenzo reached into his pocket, withdrew his white linen handkerchief, and handed it to Clara.
"Stand up, Clara," Lorenzo commanded gently. "Put your shoes on. Marco will take Millie to the private suite on fourteen."
Clara looked up, her eyes wide with sudden alarm. "Lorenzo... what are you going to do? The mayor is down there. The district attorney is sitting at his table—"
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Lorenzo’s lips parted into a faint, terrifying smile that held neither warmth nor mercy—the smile that had earned him the throne of New Orleans before his thirty-fifth year.
"I am going to make a charitable contribution," Lorenzo said.
