It wasn’t the roar of a sports car engine, which would have been gauche but acceptable in this crowd. It was the low, guttural hum of a heavy, V12 engine—the sound of serious, old-world power.
The black limousine slowed to a stop at the very edge of the open-air venue. It was polished so bright it acted as a black mirror, reflecting the hotel’s entire front facade and twisting it into something dark and ominous. The vehicle was an intrusion, a blot of ink on a pristine white page.
The music faltered. The cellist missed a beat. Guests whispered, craning their necks, the rustle of fabric moving through the crowd like the hiss of a warning snake.
“Who is that?” someone whispered in the front row. “Is it the Senator?”
“Maybe a surprise guest from the bride’s side?”
David squinted against the sun, confused. His heart gave a singular, violent thud against his ribs. He wasn’t expecting anyone important today. The schedule was tight. Security was tighter.
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