Page 109 of Unholy Union
We polish off our second glasses and follow the signage toward the restroom.
Cato’s security that has been distantly trailing us every step of the way stops at the door and waits outside.
Even the bathroom is absurdly extravagant—mirrored walls, mosaic floors, individual stalls with carved doors, and actual chandeliers dripping crystal. There’s a bathroom attendant dressed in all black standing near the sinks offering mints and individual hand towels.
“Is this a toilet or a damn jewelry boutique?” Tessa mutters as she disappears into a stall. “I feel like I should be leaving a tip just for entering.”
“We are leaving a tip. That woman just offered me La Mer hand cream.”
From behind the door, Tessa snorts. “Of course she did. Bet they have Chanel tampons in here too.”
We chat between stalls about the art so far and who’s wearing what and whether Giada’s date looks old enough for AARP, then wash up and tip the attendant on our way out. But when we step back into the hallway, something’s off.
“This isn’t where we came in,” I murmur, blinking at the unfamiliar corridor stretching ahead of us, lined with sculpture instead of paintings. The lighting down this way is dimmer, more muted.
Tessa pauses. “Wait. Did that bathroom havetwoexits?”
I glance behind us. “Apparently.”
We exchange a look—hers tipsy and amused, mine tipsy and vaguely alarmed.
“Shit,” I whisper. “Cato’s security is probably still waiting on the other side.”
“Well, they’ll figure it out,” Tessa says with a shrug, already starting forward. “Besides, don’t you find it suffocating being trailed around like a presidential candidate? Let’s wander solo. Just for a minute. I want to explore more before we our chaperones return.”
I hesitate, glancing over my shoulder again, but she’s already tugging me along. “Tess…”
“Comeon, live a little.”
We wander deeper into the exhibit, passing glass cases of antique jewelry and tapestries. The champagne is starting to make my vision fuzzier than it should be. My skin’s flushed and warm and I’m aware I’m not as sober as I’d like to be walking in heels.
Worst of all, I’m not sure how to get back. The museum’s corridors are like veins, snaking in too many directions, and I didn’t exactly pay attention when we left the bathroom.
That’s when we come across hushed voices. They’re low and masculine but immediately familiar.
I freeze, Tessa stumbling to a halt beside me as we peer around the edge of a column.
In a side gallery lit with golden sconces and lined with dark-paneled walls, two men stand in the center, their heads bowed in tense conversation.
It’s Cato and his father, Don Valente.
Both of their right-hand enforcers stand by their sides. Lazaro next to Cato and Pello for his father.
None of the men see us.
But I know with a sickening pit in my stomach that I was never meant to hear what they’re discussing.
My instincts prove to be true the next second when I overhear what Don Valente says.
“...Corsini Construction is on the ropes. We have them where we want them. The vote’s in three days. All we have to do is vote him out.”
I stop breathing, my heart seizing mid-beat.
Cato’s voice follows, deeper and more subdued than usual, like he’s struggling to contain his agitation.
“That’s the plan… but we’ll see if it comes to fruition.”
I inch forward enough to peek around the stone pillar.
