Arturo moved through the crowd like a shark cutting through water. He didn't ask people to move; they simply scattered, terrified of being in his path. The silence in the ballroom was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic, heavy click of his dress shoes on the parquet.
He reached the banquet table and didn't even glance at the diamond brooch that was worth more than most people's houses. His eyes were fixed on Walker.
"Mr. Watts," Walker started, sweat beading on his forehead. "We found the-"
Arturo raised a single hand. It was a lazy, dismissive gesture, but it silenced the security chief instantly. Arturo stepped past him, closing the distance to Cinnamon.
He looked down at her. She was trembling, her skin pale against the black silk of her dress. Without a word, he shrugged off his tuxedo jacket. The movement was fluid, practiced. He draped the heavy fabric over her shoulders, pulling the lapels together in front of her chest, cocooning her. The jacket was warm from his body and smelled of cedarwood and expensive scotch.
It was a claim. Mine.
He turned slowly to face Mrs. Van der Hoven. "Did you insure the piece, Margaret?"
The woman blinked, thrown off by his calm tone. "Well, yes, of course, Arturo, but that's not the-"
"Good." Arturo nodded to his assistant, Carter, who had materialized silently by the audiovisual booth. "Play it."
"Play what?" Tiffany asked, her voice shrill. "The cameras don't cover this corner. It's a blind spot."
Arturo turned his head slowly to look at his cousin. His eyes were dead. "There are no blind spots in a building I own, Tiffany."
A massive projection screen descended from the ceiling behind the stage. The room turned to watch. The footage was grainy but clear enough. It showed the ballroom from a high angle.
There was Cinnamon, standing by the pillar. There was the waiter, reaching into his pocket. The glint of the diamond in his hand was unmistakable. He bumped into her. His hand moved with the speed of a magician, slipping the brooch into her open bag as it fell.
The gasp this time was one of shock, not outrage.
"The waiter," Arturo said, his voice bored, "received a wire transfer of ten thousand dollars this morning from a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands. A company that, until three hours ago, was linked to an IP address in this very building."
He didn't look at Tiffany. He didn't have to. Every eye in the room shifted to her. Tiffany took a step back, her heel catching on the carpet, and she stumbled, knocking over a chair. The clatter was deafening.
Arturo turned back to Mrs. Van der Hoven. "Watts Capital will be reviewing our portfolio tomorrow. I believe your husband's shipping firm is up for contract renewal. We generally prefer partners who possess... basic judgment skills."
Mrs. Van der Hoven turned ashen. "Arturo, please, I didn't know-"
He ignored her. He wrapped an arm around Cinnamon's shoulders-his grip iron-hard-and steered her toward the exit. "We're leaving."
They walked out together, a united front, leaving the chaos behind them. Cinnamon tried to match his stride, her legs shaking. He felt like a furnace next to her, solid and unbreakable.
But the moment the elevator doors slid shut, cutting them off from the world, the warmth vanished.
Arturo hit the emergency stop button. The elevator jerked to a halt between floors.
He turned on her, crowding her into the corner. The protectiveness was gone, replaced by a cold, simmering fury. He reached out, his fingers gripping her chin, forcing her to look up at him.
"Why didn't you call me?" he demanded. His voice was low, dangerous.
"I... I handled it," Cinnamon stammered, her back pressed against the mirror.
"Handled it?" Arturo let out a dark, humorless laugh. "You were shaking like a leaf. You were about to be handcuffed. That is not handling it, Cinnamon. That is becoming a liability." His mind raced, calculating the potential damage-the headlines, the effect on share price, the ammunition it would give his political rivals. This was not about her feelings; it was about risk mitigation.
"I didn't steal it!" she cried, the injustice finally bubbling over. Tears pricked her eyes, hot and stinging.
"I know you didn't steal it," he snapped. "You're too smart to be a thief and too proud to be a petty one. But you stood there and let them crucify you."
"What was I supposed to do? Scream?"
"You were supposed to call me. I am the one who fixes things. That is the arrangement."
Cinnamon tried to pull her face away, but his grip tightened just enough to hold her. "I don't want you to fix everything. I want to have a life where things don't need fixing."
Arturo stared at her, his eyes searching hers. For a second, the ice cracked. He looked tired. He looked... human. But then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.
It was folded into a small square. He flicked it open.
Cinnamon's breath hitched. It was the receipt for her application to the FBI Academy at Quantico. The one she had hidden under the mattress in the guest room.
"Give that back," she said, reaching for it.
He held it high above her head, effortlessly out of reach. "The FBI? Really? You think the federal government hires the daughters of financial terrorists?"
"I passed the written exam," she said, her voice trembling with rage. "I can pass the background check if you don't interfere."
"I don't have to interfere. Your last name interferes for you." He crumpled the paper in his fist. "Watts women do not become federal agents. Especially not to dig up graves that are better left undisturbed."
"You're reading my mail now?"
"I am the Executor of the Trust. I read everything that impacts the estate. And you, my dear, are the estate's biggest asset and its biggest risk."
"I am a person!" she yelled, shoving his chest. It was like shoving a wall.
"You are a target," he corrected, his voice dropping to a whisper. He leaned in, his lips inches from her ear. "And until you understand that, you don't get to make decisions."
He released the emergency button. The elevator lurched into motion.
Cinnamon slumped against the wall, defeated. He had intercepted the letter. He knew. He would never let her leave.
The doors opened to the underground garage. The air was damp and smelled of gasoline. A black SUV was waiting, the engine idling.
Arturo walked out, not waiting for her. He got into the back seat. Cinnamon stood there for a moment, staring at the open door. She could run. She could run right now. But where? She had no money, no cards that weren't linked to him, and the entire city thought she was a thief.
She climbed into the car.
Arturo was already on his phone, scrolling through emails. He didn't look at her. The partition was up, separating them from the driver.
Cinnamon stared out the window as the car merged into traffic. The city lights blurred into streaks of neon. She hated him. She hated how safe she felt when he put his jacket on her, and she hated how small she felt now.
Beside her, Arturo's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and for a split second, Cinnamon saw the screen before he flipped it face down.
It was a notification from a secure server. The header read: SEC SUBPOENA - URGENT.
Arturo's hand rested on the phone, his fingers tapping a rhythmic, agitated beat against the leather case. He wasn't just angry at her. He was cornered. And a cornered wolf was the most dangerous thing in the world.
