Chapter 5 - Blood on the Plaza Marble
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel hummed with the quiet, terrifying tension of seventy heavily armed men dressed in black tie, accompanied by their wives and mistresses.
When the double doors opened and Kendrick Ashford walked in with Willa Vance on his arm, the hum died instantly.
Willa kept her head held high, her fingers resting lightly on the crook of Kendrick’s muscular arm. She could feel the coiled power in his frame, the subtle shift in his muscles as every eye in the room zeroed in on the emerald blazing against her throat.
Whispers broke out like wildfire.
"Is that the waitress?"
"She’s wearing the Ashford Emerald..."
"Barrett said she was a street rat!"
At the center table sat Barrett Hayes, flanked by his two enormous enforcers. His face went through three distinct shades of gray before settling into a sickening sneer. He rose, holding up a glass of red wine, and walked toward them.
"Kendrick," Barrett purred, though his eyes were poisonous as they raked over Willa. "I see you brought the stray out for a walk. Tell me, does she know which fork to use, or should we order a trough for the table?"
A low murmur of laughter rippled through Barrett's loyalists. Willa’s cheeks flushed, but before Kendrick could move—before his hand could reach the silver-plated pistol concealed beneath his jacket—Willa took a calm step forward.
"A fish fork has three tines, Mr. Hayes, and the dessert spoon sits at the top of the plate," Willa said, her voice clear, musical, and utterly unbothered. "I spent five years serving men who bought manners with their stolen money. But true class, sir, cannot be purchased on a loan from the Gambino syndicate—which I hear you are currently thirty days late on repaying."
A dead silence fell over the room. Several older capos gasped, while others looked down at their plates to hide sudden grins. Barrett’s face turned an ugly, mottled crimson.
Kendrick let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated through the silent room. He stepped up beside Willa, casually slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her flush against his side. The sheer possessiveness of the gesture left no room for doubt.
"My fiancée possesses many talents, Barrett," Kendrick warned, his gray eyes turning dead and cold. "Among them is an extraordinary memory for ledgers. Now sit down and finish your dinner before I decide your chair is better occupied by someone with manners."
Barrett trembled with suppressed rage, his fingers whitening around his wineglass until the stem cracked. "You won't survive this arrogance, Ashford," he hissed under his breath, turning sharply on his heel and storming back to his table.
Throughout the dinner, Willa held her own with remarkable grace. She engaged the older dons in conversation, discussing shipping routes, local politics, and charities with an innate intelligence that stunned Kendrick’s allies. She wasn't an ornament; she was a force of nature.
Late into the evening, Willa excused herself to the powder room. As she washed her hands in the gilded marble basin, the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly stood on end.
She looked into the mirror and saw the reflection of a waiter stepping silently behind her, a linen napkin concealing a gleaming hunting knife.
"Mr. Hayes sends his compliments, little girl," the man snarled, lunging forward.
Willa didn't scream. Years of dodging abusive drunks in back-alley diners took over. She grabbed a heavy marble soap dispenser and hurled it squarely at his face. The dispenser struck his nose with a sickening crunch. The man roared in pain, swinging the blade blindly.
The knife sliced clean through the emerald velvet at Willa's shoulder, scoring a fiery line across her skin.
Before the assassin could strike a second blow, the heavy door of the restroom was kicked off its hinges with a thunderous crash.
Kendrick Ashford moved like a phantom. In less than two seconds, he had the assassin by the throat, slamming him against the tiled wall with enough force to shatter the mirror. The knife clattered harmlessly to the floor.
"Who touched her?" Kendrick’s roar was inhuman, the sound of an enraged beast unleashed. His fingers crushed the man’s windpipe until the assassin's eyes rolled back in terror.
"Kendrick, stop!" Willa cried out, rushing forward, her hand grasping his tensed, stone-like forearm. "He's down! Don't kill him here!"
At the touch of her hand, the berserk rage in Kendrick's eyes flickered. He turned his head and saw the tear in her dress, the thin line of red soaking into the green velvet.
A terrifying stillness settled over him. It was far worse than his shouting.
"Marcus," Kendrick spoke into his lapel without breaking eye contact with Willa. "Lock down the Plaza. Nobody leaves. Bring Barrett Hayes to the basement."
He tossed the half-conscious assassin to the floor like a sack of trash, took off his bespoke tuxedo jacket, and gently wrapped it around Willa’s trembling shoulders, covering her wound.
"Are you hurt anywhere else?" his voice was suddenly a ragged whisper, his large hands trembling slightly as he framed her face, checking every inch of her skin.
"I'm fine, Kendrick... it's just a scratch," she murmured, leaning into the warmth of his palms despite herself.
May you like
Kendrick pulled her tightly against his chest, burying his face in her hair. "No one touches what is mine," he vowed against her ear, his heartbeat thundering against her cheek. "I will burn this city to the ground before I let them lay a finger on you again."
***
