Footsteps(3)

Who the fuck cheated on that?





Maybe the same kind of person as one who would run away with her lover and leave a husband and child alone in her wake. Peter was right. Carlo had no business being surprised at this kind of shit.





Maybe the blonde in the little white dress was the reason this sparkly beauty had been storming heedless down the hallway in the first place.





Auberon was finishing his remarks. Carlo hadn’t heard a word of them. But he’d heard plenty of pompously vague doubletalk in his time, so he could fill in the blanks. Now, though, Auberon held his hand out toward his wife. Even from the distance at which he was sitting, Carlo could see the dark look she gave that hand before she reached out with one graceful arm, adorned with a wide bracelet glinting with golden stones, and took it.





Auberon pulled her forward and turned back to the microphone. In his clipped, precise voice, he said “And, of course, without my beautiful Sabina, I would not have succeeded half so well in ways either material or meaningful. Thank you, my darling.” As the audience applauded, Auberon put a possessive hand on Sabina’s waist and kissed her cheek. She smiled stiffly.





Sabina, Carlo thought. Beautiful name.





~oOo~





In the reception area after the end of the program, where the bar was again open and people were again schmoozing, Carlo grabbed Peter’s arm.





“I’m heading out, man. I’ve had about as much of this as I can take.”





“C’mon, Carlo. The good part’s finally starting.” He gestured at a lovely, slim blonde in a slinky, shimmery scarlet gown. “That’s Chloe. She’s here with a couple of friends. I thought we’d go out, hit Port 99, maybe get a little cozy. It’s time, bro. You’re all dressed up. Let’s get you back on the hottie.”





“Not this time. I’m taking Trey home in the morning. Pop’s big start-of-summer shindig, remember? I’ll be in Quiet Cove next week. I thought you were coming out for the weekend.”





“Might do.” He smirked. “Doesn’t mean I can’t party tonight.”





“Well, it does mean that I can’t. I’ll see you tomorrow. Or I won’t, whatever.” Carlo let go of Peter’s arm. Peter shrugged and headed toward the slinky red dress. Carlo turned toward the exit and freedom, loosening his black silk noose as he went.





As he reached the door, stretching his arm to the pressure bar, he was hit from behind by a solid force. He stumbled forward, pitching toward the door. Regaining his feet, he turned to see the man of the night himself, sidling to the next door and pushing his way through, with no sign or word of apology, a murderous expression darkening his brow.





Apparently, the entire Auberon family was getting up close and personal with him this fine evening. Grumbling under his breath about rude bazillionaires, Carlo pushed through the door. Once outside in the noticeably cooler night air, he fumbled in his pocket for the valet ticket.





A flash of sparkle caught his eye, and he looked up to see Auberon and his wife—Sabina, her name was Sabina—standing at a taxi. Her dress caught and returned the gleam from the streetlights. It looked as if she had been getting into the back seat of the cab and that Auberon had pulled her out. Now, husband had wife’s arms in a death grip. She was obviously struggling to get loose, and they were obviously arguing, but too quietly to be heard.





The wide walkway and drive was moderately populated with people waiting for their vehicles, and it seemed to Carlo that everyone was watching the hostile scene play out. No one was doing anything about it, however. Carlo tried to decide whether anything should be done. A married couple fighting was not exactly unusual, even if the couple was among the wealthiest and most influential in the state. And even if the husband was dangerously powerful.





So dangerously powerful that no one was capturing this moment on their phones. Not even the reporter from the local paper was getting footage of the scene.





Then Auberon yanked Sabina forward, away from the cab, and she fell to her knees on the curb. She cried out when her knees hit, and before Carlo had another thought, he was striding toward them.





“Is there a problem here?” Why was that the question that had leapt from his mouth? Why did people ask such a stupid thing? Of course there was a problem. Sabina was still on her knees, and Auberon was still yanking on her arm. Now, Carlo was close enough to hear the danger in Auberon’s voice, even if the words were too low yet to be made out.





But both husband and wife shook their heads. Auberon smiled coolly. “Thank you for your concern—Carlo is it? Carlo Pagano?”