me less than five minutes to tie her to Diatheke. Cristal was a member of the Houston Opera Admiration Society. Randall Baker, Diatheke’s figurehead founder, was also a member. A picture of last year’s gala had run in the newspaper, gushing about the money the society had raised for charity by selling invitation-only tickets at one hundred thousand dollars a pop. In it, Cristal sat at a round table. To her left, four seats down, Benedict De Lacy raised a champagne flute to his lips.
This was as close to a smoking gun as we could get. It would never stand up in court, but it didn’t need to. I went into my office, shut the door, and emailed the dossier to Linus. I could see straight through the glass door into the conference room. The entire family was watching me, silent. Runa’s face turned white again.
My phone rang. I picked it up.
“What’s your assessment of access?” Linus asked.
“Extremely limited. Her family is well connected and has a history of cooperation with military forces.”
All of which I had put into our report. Getting an interview with her would be difficult, getting her House’s permission for me to magic her would be impossible, and if we used brute force and demanded she submit to interrogation and I was wrong, there would be hell to pay.
“I can compel her testimony, but we will need verification,” Linus said.
“Cristal rarely leaves the House Ferrer compound,” I continued.
“But she does enjoy the opera,” Linus said.
“Yes, but the next HOAS gala is tonight, in less than three hours. The tickets for the Crystal Ball are invitation-only and have been sold out for months—”
“I’ll pick you and Alessandro up at seven.”
He hung up.
No good job, no thumbs up. Just pick you up at seven.
Arabella jumped up, ran across the hallway, and opened my door. “What did he say?”
“He wants me to go with him and Alessandro to the gala. Tonight. At seven.”
I stared at my phone. 5:37 p.m. There was no way. The hair alone . . .
“Up!” Arabella snapped at me. “You have less than an hour and a half. You need a shower.”
I texted Alessandro, Opera, 7:00 p.m., tuxedo, and ran upstairs, thanking Arrosa in my head for insisting that I buy a small but expensive wardrobe.
I had three evening dresses: a white sheath, a red dress the color of blood, and a flowing blue gown that hugged my breasts and waist, spilling into a flowing skirt. The sheath was too tight to allow any sort of running, the red dress drew too much attention, so the blue gown was it.
It had taken a miracle, but at 6:58 p.m. Arabella herded everyone into the kitchen, so I could go into Runa’s bedroom and change, because there was no way I could make it down the stairs in the gown.
I stepped into a pair of small silver heels, slipped the dress on, and examined myself in the mirror. My dark hair fell on my shoulders in wide waves, combed back behind one ear in a deep side part. It framed my face, showing off the diamond earrings glittering in my ears. The diamonds were lab made. Arrosa had insisted on the real thing, but I’d refused. Nobody had died digging my earrings out of the ground, and that mattered more to me than what Houston’s elite would think.
My makeup was light for the evening. I never looked good wearing bright lipstick, so I opted for a lighter pink and smoky eyes. Given another half an hour, I would have done a better job contouring my face, but it would have to do. I looked appropriate for the evening, and nobody would laugh in my face. Most of it was in your poise anyway. As long as you looked like you belonged at the venue, people assumed you were supposed to be there, and being escorted by Alessandro Sagredo and Linus Duncan meant most of the attention would be on them.
I took a deep breath and walked out of the room. Voices drifted from the kitchen, and I headed in that direction.
“. . . a dignified pleasant gentleman,” Alessandro was saying. “I was honored to make Mr. Duncan’s acquaintance.”
Honored my ass.
“We shared a drink. It was perfectly cordial—”
I walked into the kitchen. Alessandro stopped in mid-sentence.
He was wearing a tuxedo. It fit him like a glove. He looked like he was born in it, every inch a Prime.