Chapter 8 - The Counter-Trap
Emma looked down at the black velvet evening bag in her hand.
The clutch had belonged to Vincent’s mother—a simple, elegant purse with a gold clasp. But the fabric was bulging slightly on the right side, pulled down by a heavy, dense object that hadn't been there two minutes ago.
She didn't open it.
She didn't gasp.
Instead, she remembered the three hours she had spent in Vincent’s LaSalle Street office on Tuesday morning, watching his head of security review security camera layouts for the Art Institute. She remembered the specific instructions Marcus had given her regarding the blind spots near the Impressionist wing’s archways.
"Vincent," Emma whispered, not turning her head.
Vincent leaned down slightly, as if adjusting his mother’s wrap. "Yes?"
"Victoria just dropped something into my clutch," Emma murmured. "When she bumped me."
A cold, razor-thin smile touched the corner of Vincent’s mouth. "Right on schedule."
Across the gallery, two uniformed Chicago police officers were already moving through the crowd, accompanied by the Art Institute’s chief of security and Victoria Langford’s personal attorney. They were moving with purpose, their eyes locked on the landing where Emma stood.
"Stay still," Vincent said.
"They're going to search me," Emma said, her pulse thrumming in her temples, though her voice remained steady.
"Let them," Vincent replied.
The officers reached the landing thirty seconds later. The senior officer, a lieutenant with graying temples and a gold badge, looked deeply uncomfortable. He stopped three paces from Vincent, touching the brim of his cap.
"Mr. Moretti," the lieutenant said. "I apologize for the intrusion, sir. We have a report of a grand larceny that occurred ten minutes ago in the private VIP lounge."
The crowd around them began to circle, sensing blood. Julian Vance and Victoria stood thirty feet back, watching with expressions of carefully manufactured concern.
"A theft, Lieutenant?" Vincent asked, his voice ringing out clearly over the hushed room. "From whom?"
"From Miss Langford," the lieutenant said, his eyes darting nervously toward Emma. "A five-hundred-thousand-dollar sapphire and diamond pendant, part of the Langford family collection on loan to the museum. An eyewitness reported seeing a young woman fitting Miss Carter’s description leaving the lounge five minutes before the loss was discovered."
Victoria stepped forward, her voice trembling with mock sorrow. "It was my grandmother’s pendant. Vincent, I'm so sorry. I know this girl is your mother’s new... employee. But someone saw her near the display case."
Emma stood perfectly still. Her chin was up, her dark eyes fixed on Victoria with an icy, contemptuous amusement that made the socialite’s smile begin to waver.
"Lieutenant," Emma said, her voice calm and melodic. "Are you asking to search my purse?"
"Miss Carter, if you would just open the clutch for us, we can clear this up immediately," the officer said, reaching out with an open hand.
"By all means," Emma said.
She lifted the black velvet clutch, held it out at eye level, and clicked the gold clasp open.
The crowd craned their necks.
The lieutenant reached in with gloved fingers. He pulled out a small gold tube of lipstick. A linen handkerchief embroidered with the letter *I*. A pack of mints.
And a heavy, rectangular piece of cream cardstock, folded in thirds and sealed with red wax.
Nothing else.
No sapphire. No diamonds. No jewelry of any kind.
Victoria took an involuntary step forward, her face turning gray. "What? No! It was in the side pocket! She took it!"
"There is no jewelry in this bag, ma'am," the lieutenant said, his voice hardening as he looked at Victoria. "Only personal items."
"She’s lying! She passed it to an accomplice! Search her dress!" Victoria shrieked, losing her control entirely, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings of the gallery.
"Victoria," Julian Vance hissed, reaching out to grab her arm, but it was too late.
Vincent took the folded parchment from the lieutenant’s fingers.
"Lieutenant," Vincent said, holding the paper up for the entire room to see. "I believe you have been used to stage a distraction. But Miss Langford was correct about one thing. A theft did occur."
He broke the red wax seal with a sharp, dry crack.
"This document," Vincent said, his voice booming across the gallery like a cathedral bell, "is the 1994 capitalization certificate for Moretti Maritime Group. It was stolen three weeks ago from my mother’s private residence in Lake Forest. We have been tracking its chain of custody through forensic security scans of the Racquet Club’s private lockers, which Julian Vance accessed at 11:15 yesterday morning."
Julian Vance’s face went dead white. He took half a step backward, toward the gallery exit.
Two plainclothes federal agents in dark suits stepped out from behind the bronze statue of Rodin’s *Adam*, blocking the doorway.
"Mr. Vance," the lead agent said, holding up a federal warrant. "United States Marshals. We have a warrant for your arrest on charges of interstate wire fraud, corporate extortion, and the unlawful transfer of registered securities."
The room erupted into an absolute frenzy of gasps, dropped glasses, and shouting.
Victoria stared at the folded paper in Vincent’s hand, her chest heaving, her eyes wild with a sudden, horrifying realization.
"How?" she choked out, looking at Emma. "I put the sapphire—"
"You put the sapphire into the purse of a server who looked like me," Emma said, taking one slow, deliberate step toward her. Her voice was quiet, meant only for Victoria. "She was wearing the same dress. She walked past you near the coat check three minutes before you came up here. My security team took the pendant off her twenty seconds after you dropped it in her pocket. It’s currently in the museum director’s safe."
Emma tilted her head, her dark eyes flashing with a cold, triumphant fire.
"You really should learn to look at people’s faces, Victoria," Emma whispered. "Instead of just their uniforms."
Victoria stumbled backward. Her heel caught on the hem of her crimson gown, and she fell hard onto the polished marble floor with a wet, undignified smack.
Nobody moved to help her.
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The forty billionaires who had watched Emma Carter get fired at the Drake Hotel five days ago now looked down at Victoria Langford with the cold, bored disgust reserved for an animal that had outlived its usefulness.
***
