Chapter 5 - Whispers in the Gallery
The fog had rolled in from the Atlantic, thick and smelling of brine, turning the gas lamps along the gravel paths of Marble House into blurry golden halos.
Harper stood against the stone balustrade, looking out at the black water crashing against the rocks eighty feet below. The ocean sounded furious. The cold air hit her bare shoulders, but she refused to shiver.
A heavy wool coat was draped over her shoulders. The warmth of Julian’s body clung to the lining.
“You’re going to catch pneumonia,” Julian said, stepping up beside her. He had shed his tuxedo jacket, wearing only his white shirt and waistcoat, his sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, scarred forearms.
“I’ve survived worse,” Harper said, wrapping the coat tighter around herself. “My first year at Kline & Sterling, I worked eighty-hour weeks on five hours of sleep and bad deli coffee.”
“Auditing isn't survival, Harper. It’s endurance.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Survival has casualties,” Julian said.
He leaned against the balustrade, looking down at her. In the misty glow of the gas lamps, the angles of his face seemed harder, more ancient.
“Why did Tierney use Carter?” Harper asked. “Carter isn't smart enough to pull off an international laundering scheme. He makes mistakes. He left three discrepancies in the Delaware filings that I caught in ten minutes.”
“That’s precisely why Tierney chose him,” Julian explained, his voice low against the rumble of the surf. “Tierney didn't want a partner. He wanted an idiot with an Ivy League pedigree and an expensive smile. When the SEC and the Southern District finally pull the net, Tierney will stand before the cameras, express his profound shock that his son-in-law was abusing his trust, and let Carter take twenty years in Allenwood while the Tierney family trusts keep the money.”
Harper felt a sudden, sickening drop in her stomach. “And if I hadn't come?”
“Carter would have signed the final transfer papers tomorrow at noon, three hours before the ceremony. Your name was listed as the compliance officer on the secondary escrow account. You would have been picked up by federal marshals before the reception was over.”
Harper turned on him, her anger flaring hot and sudden. “You knew this before you sat down at the St. Regis.”
“Yes.”
“You didn't come to Newport to be my plus-one. You used me to get through Tierney’s perimeter.”
Julian didn't look away. He didn't blink. He took one slow, deliberate step toward her until she was boxed between his frame and the stone balustrade.
“I needed the invitation, Harper,” he said, his voice dropping into that dangerous, intimate cadence. “That’s true. But I could have forged one in three hours. I have four people on payroll who can replicate Newport calligraphy down to the ink viscosity.”
“Then why?” she demanded, her hands curling into the lapels of his coat.
Julian looked down at her lips, then back to her eyes. His expression wasn't cold anymore. It was burning with a quiet, terrifying focus.
“Because when I saw you sitting at that bar, looking at that invitation like you wanted to tear the world apart with your bare hands, I realized something.”
“What?”
“That it would be an absolute tragedy to let a woman with your fire spend the rest of her life thinking she wasn't enough for a boy who wasn't worthy to wipe the dust off your shoes.”
Harper’s breath hitched. Her fingers tightened on his wool coat. The wind whipped a strand of dark hair across her cheek, and Julian reached up—slowly, giving her every second to pull away—and tucked it behind her ear. His fingers grazed her jawline. The touch sent a violent, electric shiver down the back of her neck.
“Julian…”
“Harper,” a voice hissed from the darkness of the rose garden.
Harper stiffened.
Carter stepped out of the fog. His tie was undone, his hair disheveled by the coastal wind. He looked wild, his eyes bloodshot, smelling faintly of bourbon and panic.
“Carter,” Harper said, not moving away from Julian.
“Get away from him, Harper,” Carter rasped, taking an unsteady step forward. “You don't know what he is. You think you’re being clever? You think this is some cute little payback because I left? Julian Cross is a butcher. He’s the head of the Moretti syndicate out of South Brooklyn. He moves weapons, Harper. He moves cartel money through the Red Hook terminals.”
Harper didn't blink. She felt Julian’s hand slide slowly from her cheek down to the back of her neck, his thumb resting over her pulse point. It was an anchor.
“I know what he does, Carter,” Harper said, her voice dropping into a crystalline, devastating calm. “He moves logistics. And unlike you, he doesn't need his future father-in-law to hold his hand while he does it.”
Carter stared at her as if she had spoken in Latin. “He’s going to kill me, Harper! He’s here to kill Arthur!”
Julian didn't raise his voice. He didn't even take his hand off Harper’s neck. He simply turned his head toward Carter, his eyes narrowing into two slits of grey stone.
“I’m not going to kill you, Carter,” Julian said smoothly. “Dead men don't go to federal prison. Dead men don't sign indemnity releases. Now walk back to your fiancée before I decide that you don't need both of those hands to hold Madison’s bouquet tomorrow.”
Carter took one look at Julian’s face, whimpered—a pathetic, choked sound—and turned, fleeing back into the illuminated warmth of the mansion.
Harper stood in the silence of the garden, her heart hammering against Julian’s palm.
“Moretti?” she asked quietly.
Julian looked down at her. “My mother’s name. Cross was my father’s.”
“Are you going to kill Arthur Tierney?”
“Not if he signs the paper,” Julian said. “I’m a businessman, Harper. Blood is expensive. It ruins the carpet.”
Harper let out a ragged breath that turned into a quiet laugh. “You are completely insane.”
“Probably,” Julian agreed. “Are you coming inside? Or do you want to stay out here and listen to the Atlantic tell us how small we are?”
Harper looked at the hand resting on her shoulder, then reached up and covered it with her own.
May you like
“Let’s go inside,” she said. “We have an audit to run.”
***
