Dance Like My Husband — The Red Dot on His Forehead

Vivian wrapped both arms around Edmund’s neck and whispered: “Dance like my husband. There’s a red dot on your forehead.”

Edmund Costa entered the danger with one hand around her waist and a folded wedding contract inside his jacket.

A tiny number had been written beside her father’s signature.

Edmund suddenly realized the wedding had never been about a debt.

Ten hours earlier, Vivian Moretti had stood before an altar and promised herself she would never love the man waiting for her there.

She had been twenty-six years old, furious, frightened, and dressed like a woman walking willingly toward happiness.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Her father, Victor Moretti, had spent years destroying everything his own father had built. Gambling had begun as entertainment. Then it became desperation. Horses. Cards. Private tables behind locked doors. Bets large enough to swallow warehouses, ships, and finally the Moretti family company.

By the time Victor admitted how much he owed, the number was impossible.

Edmund Costa had paid it.

In return, Vivian married him.

That was how everyone described the arrangement.

But standing beneath the chandeliers of the Costa ballroom that evening, Vivian was beginning to understand that everyone might have been wrong.

Edmund did not react to her warning.

That frightened her more than panic would have.

His dark eyes remained fixed on hers while the orchestra played around them.

“Where?” he whispered.

“Eastern windows. High.”

“Don’t look again.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

His tattooed hand moved higher on her back.

Anyone watching would have thought the feared Edmund Costa was pulling his bride closer.

Only Vivian felt the change in him.

The relaxed pressure disappeared.

His body became controlled steel.

“One,” he murmured.

They turned.

“Two.”

They drifted toward a marble column.

Vivian saw the laser hit the floor.

Then Edmund’s sleeve.

“He has you.”

“Three.”

Edmund moved.

He spun Vivian sharply, putting the marble pillar between them and the eastern windows.

At almost the same instant, a crystal champagne glass exploded on a waiter’s tray.

The sound was small beneath the orchestra.

But Edmund heard it.

So did several men stationed around the ballroom.

They moved without shouting.

One closed the eastern doors.

Another touched his earpiece.

A third disappeared through the crowd.

The music continued.

“Was that—”

“Yes.”

Vivian stared at him.

“A bullet?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re still dancing?”

“Stopping would tell the shooter he failed.”

Her mouth went dry.

“You’re insane.”

“That possibility has been raised.”

Despite everything, Vivian almost laughed.

Almost.

Then Edmund leaned close.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Certain?”

“Yes.”

His gaze moved quickly over her face and shoulders.

Only when satisfied did something in his expression loosen.

It lasted less than a second.

Vivian noticed anyway.

“You’re worried about me?”

“You put yourself between me and a rifle.”

“I was trying to keep five hundred people from panicking.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Vivian looked away.

Across the ballroom, her father was drinking champagne.

Victor Moretti had not noticed the broken glass.

He had not noticed security quietly moving toward the eastern wing.

He had not even noticed his daughter nearly getting shot.

Something bitter settled inside her.

Edmund followed her gaze.

“Your father.”

“What about him?”

“He’s leaving.”

Vivian looked again.

Victor had set down his glass.

He was moving toward a side corridor.

Too quickly.

Edmund’s jaw tightened.

“Stay here.”

“No.”

“Vivian.”

“You don’t get to order me around.”

“Someone just fired at us.”

“At you.”

“You stepped in front of me. That made it ‘us.’”

The words landed harder than she expected.

Before she could answer, a broad-shouldered man approached.

Luca Costa.

Edmund’s younger cousin and head of security.

His face gave nothing away.

“East gallery is empty,” Luca said quietly. “Window was open. We found a rifle rest and one casing.”

“No weapon?”

“No.”

“Cameras?”

“Looped for ninety seconds.”

Edmund’s eyes hardened.

“Inside access.”

“That’s what I think.”

Vivian looked between them.

“You mean the shooter had help from someone here?”

Neither answered immediately.

That was answer enough.

Luca lowered his voice.

“There’s something else.”

He held out a small brass object.

A casino chip.

Black enamel.

A red number stamped in the center.

Vivian stopped breathing.

She had seen one before.

Not recently.

Years ago.

Her father kept one locked inside his desk.

Edmund saw her reaction.

“You recognize it.”

“No.”

“Vivian.”

“I said no.”

He watched her.

She hated how difficult lying became beneath that stare.

Then he reached inside his jacket and removed a folded document.

Their marriage contract.

“What are you doing carrying that?”

“Your father altered something before the ceremony.”

Edmund opened the last page.

Victor’s signature sat at the bottom.

Beside it, almost invisible in blue ink, was a handwritten number.

Vivian felt cold.

“That wasn’t there when I signed.”

“I know.”

“What does it mean?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

She thought of her father’s locked desk.

The casino chip.

The arguments behind closed doors.

Her mother’s death eleven years earlier.

A car accident, everyone had said.

An accident Victor refused to discuss.

Vivian stepped away from Edmund.

“I need to find my father.”

“No.”

“You don’t own me.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“That’s exactly what this marriage says.”

Something changed in Edmund’s expression.

Pain?

No.

That seemed impossible.

“I never asked your father to offer you,” he said.

Vivian froze.

“What?”

“He came to me.”

“You paid his debt.”

“Yes.”

“For me.”

“No.”

Her anger faltered.

Edmund folded the contract.

“I paid because the people holding Victor’s debt were preparing to collect it another way.”

“What other way?”

Edmund glanced toward the guests.

“Not here.”

“You bought me.”

“I prevented your father from selling you to someone else.”

Vivian stared at him.

“That’s supposed to make you noble?”

“No.”

His answer was immediate.

“I should have told you everything before the wedding.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I didn’t know who I could trust.”

“Including me?”

“Especially you.”

She slapped him.

The sound disappeared beneath the music, but several nearby guests turned.

Edmund did not move.

Vivian’s palm burned.

His cheek reddened.

“Good,” she whispered. “At least something about today was my choice.”

She turned away.

His hand caught her wrist.

Not painfully.

Just enough to stop her.

“Your father disappeared three minutes before the shot.”

Vivian looked back.

“You think he tried to kill you?”

“I think Victor knows what seventeen means.”

She pulled free.

“So do I.”

For the first time that night, Edmund looked surprised.

“My father has a chip with that number.”

“Where?”

“In his study.”

“Bellhaven house?”

“Yes.”

Edmund glanced at Luca.

Luca immediately walked away.

“What?” Vivian demanded.

“I’m sending men.”

“No. I’m going.”

“Absolutely not.”

“My father sold my life, someone fired at my husband during our first dance, and now you’re telling me both things may involve a number he has hidden for years.”

She stepped closer.

“I’m going.”

Edmund studied her for a long moment.

Then something almost respectful appeared in his eyes.

“Fine.”

They left the ballroom through a private corridor.

For the first time all day, Vivian walked beside Edmund because she chose to.

They had almost reached the rear staircase when Luca’s voice came through Edmund’s earpiece.

Edmund stopped.

“What?”

Luca spoke again.

Vivian could not hear the words.