Chapter 10 - The Return to Fifth Avenue
Dawn broke over the Hudson River,
painting the Manhattan skyline in bruised shades of violet,
gold,
and charcoal gray.
The torrential downpour had finally subsided,
leaving the asphalt slick and gleaming beneath the early morning streetlights.
We rode back toward Fifth Avenue in silence,
the armored SUV cutting effortlessly through the thinning commuter traffic.
Clara sat in the passenger seat,
staring out the window as the majestic spires of the Alden House Hotel loomed into view.
The red carpet had been rolled away.
The paparazzi and socialites had long since vanished,
leaving only a lone police cruiser parked outside the grand entrance.
“They’re still cleaning up the champagne glasses,
” Clara murmured,
a faint,
tired smile touching her lips.
“Let them,
” I replied,
parking the SUV in the subterranean receiving bay.
“The real cleanup happened three hundred feet underground.
”
We stepped out into the quiet chill of the morning air,
walking side by side toward the private elevator that led up to my penthouse suite.
As the elevator doors glided shut,
sealing us off from the rest of the world,
I turned to look at her.
Her emerald dress was slightly stained with soot and mud.
Her hair was half-unpinned,
falling in soft waves around her shoulders.
She looked nothing like the fragile,
overlooked forensic accountant people in rooms like this loved to underestimate.
She looked like a queen.
“You handled a sniper,
a cartel boss,
and a multi-million-dollar embezzlement scheme tonight without spilling your coffee,
” I noted,
my voice carrying a rare note of genuine admiration.
“I spilled half a cup in the armory,
actually,
” she corrected deadpan,
her eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Details,
Clara.
”
“In my profession,
Mr.
Vale,
details are everything.
”
The elevator chimed softly,
sliding open to reveal my sprawling penthouse overlooking Central Park as the morning sun crested the horizon.
She walked in,
dropping her ruggedized leather briefcase onto the mahogany foyer table before turning back to face me.
“What happens to Mason?” she asked quietly.
“Federal penitentiary in upstate New York,
” I replied,
walking over to the bar and pouring two glasses of scotch.
“With no offshore funds,
no legal representation,
and a very long line of unhappy associates.
”
She took the glass I offered her,
her fingers brushing mine with a warmth that felt entirely foreign in my world of shadows and ledgers.
“And what happens to us?” she asked,
tilting her head slightly as she searched my eyes.
I took a slow sip of the amber liquid,
letting the burn settle in my chest before answering.
“That depends,
” I said softly.
“Do you want to stay my forensic accountant?”
She smiled,
a slow,
radiant expression that chased away the last lingering shadows of the night.
May you like
“Only if you promise to let me pick the next waltz.
”
