The Exhibition
The northern workshop launch had brought them to Reno. Catalina and David were staying at the Otero house there; Roman and Sloane divided their time between Tahoe and the Bellandis’ northern estate during the final weeks of her pregnancy. Elena and Margaret had come north to help. Las Vegas remained home territory, with Hale House and its archives still there. For now, the work—and the two families—were north.
Catalina Otero had postponed her wedding for two reasons. The first was vanity. She had pushed a five-pound-nine-ounce human being out of her body five weeks ahead of schedule and had absolutely no intention of spending an obscene amount of money on photographs until she felt like herself again.
David had been annoyingly supportive.
“You look beautiful.”
“That was the correct answer.”
“I know.”
“It changes nothing.”
“I assumed.”
The second reason was currently waddling across the exhibition floor in four-inch heels. Catalina watched Sloane Bellandi approach.
“You’re going to break your neck.”
Sloane stopped. Looked down at her shoes. Then at Catalina.
“Why?”
“You’re thirty-five weeks pregnant.”
“I was aware.”
“Your center of gravity is somewhere near Bakersfield.”
“My center of gravity is fine.”
“You can’t see your feet.”
“I don’t need to see them. I know where they are.”
“You made Roman put your shoes on this morning.”
“That is what husbands are for.”
Catalina looked down at Isabel. Her daughter sat on Catalina’s hip wearing a cream dress, one tiny gold shoe, and an expression suggesting Sloane’s argument had merit.
“Don’t listen to her.”
Isabel grabbed Catalina’s earring.
“Ow.”
Sloane smiled.
“She agrees with me.”
“She eats carpet fibers.”
“Still counts.”
At eight months old, Isabel had become alarmingly mobile, deeply opinionated, and committed to placing every available object directly into her mouth. She had also acquired approximately forty-seven nicknames. Izzy. Isa. Bella. Bug. Peanut. Potato, courtesy of Roman, who had nearly lost visitation privileges over it.
Catalina mostly called her Isabel. Unless she was eating carpet. Then her name was Jesus Christ, Child. Tonight, Isabel was supposed to be home. That had been the plan.
Elena had volunteered. Margaret had volunteered louder. Marcus had suggested neither woman was technically necessary at the exhibition. Catalina had considered all of it. Then Isabel had developed a spectacular case of separation anxiety three days earlier and screamed as though being abandoned to wolves every time Catalina left the room. Which was ridiculous.
She was literally being abandoned to wolves. Still. Catalina brought her. The private exhibition was controlled. Guest list under one hundred. Security everywhere. Otero security at the exterior. Bellandi security inside. Museum security layered underneath both.
David and Roman were across town finishing what was supposed to be a ninety-minute meeting with an insurance group and two private collectors. They would join them before dinner. Nothing about the evening worried Catalina. Which, in retrospect, was irritating. The centerpiece sat beneath glass. Thirty-two carats. Colombian emerald. Old mine. Exceptional clarity.
The stone had come from a private estate collection in Geneva with enough documentation to satisfy even Sloane. Bellandi had acquired it eleven months earlier.
Catalina had liked it immediately. Sloane had fallen in love. Together they’d built the necklace around it. White gold. Colorless diamonds. Clean architectural lines. Nothing competing with the emerald. The second collection under Otero-Bellandi Gem Holdings had become considerably more ambitious than the first.
Catalina blamed Sloane. Sloane blamed Catalina. Both were correct. The first collection had proven people would buy their work. The second proved people would wait for it. That was more dangerous.
“Lighting is wrong.”
Catalina looked at Sloane.
“What?”
“The lighting.”
“It looks fine.”
“It looks yellow.”
“It looks like light.”
Sloane stared.
“You own luxury automotive companies.”
“Yes.”
“You understand presentation.”
“I understand that nobody buying a three-million-dollar car has ever refused because the bulb above it was four hundred degrees too warm.”
Sloane looked horrified.
“You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely know that.”
The curator approached. Sloane smiled. Catalina recognized that smile. Poor man.
“Could we cool the center light slightly?”
The curator looked toward the display.
“Of course.”
Catalina waited until he walked away.
“That was surprisingly civilized.”
“I’ve matured.”
“You threatened a florist at my baby shower.”
“He put baby’s breath beside orchids.”
“He was lucky to survive.”
“Exactly.”
Isabel reached toward Sloane. Sloane immediately held out both hands.
“Come here.”
“No.”
Her face fell.
“Why?”
“Because you have nowhere to put her.”
“I have arms.”
“You have an entire person occupying your torso.”
“I can hold a baby.”
Catalina looked at her stomach. Sloane was enormous. Not generally enormous. Pregnancy enormous. Her son or daughter—because Sloane and Roman had somehow decided not to learn the sex—appeared to have claimed every available inch between her ribs and pelvis and begun annexing neighboring territory.
Sloane put her hands on her hips.
“Catalina.”
“You can barely breathe.”
“I breathe constantly.”
“Roman tied your shoe.”
“He enjoys being useful.”
“Sloane.”
Isabel reached harder. Traitor. Sloane smiled triumphantly.
“Your daughter has spoken.”
Catalina carefully transferred her. Sloane settled Isabel above her stomach. Isabel looked down. Patted it. Something moved. Isabel froze.
Sloane gasped.
“He kicked.”
“You don’t know it’s a he.”
“Fine. They kicked.”
Isabel slapped Sloane’s belly again. Another movement. Her eyes went enormous. Catalina laughed. Isabel slapped again. Kick.
“Oh my God.”
Sloane started laughing.
“They’re fighting.”
“Obviously.”
Isabel squealed. Sloane’s eyes filled. Catalina saw it.
“Oh, don’t.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re crying.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“Pregnancy.”
“You cried before pregnancy.”
“Fuck you.”
Catalina smiled. For a moment, the exhibition disappeared. No clans. No companies. No dead fathers. No dead brothers. No bonds. No politics. Just Sloane. Catalina. Isabel. And the baby determined to kick her back.
Catalina had learned not to distrust moments like this. That had taken time. She used to believe happiness was the quiet between disasters. Something temporary. A breath before impact. She didn’t anymore. Sometimes happiness was simply happiness. She intended to enjoy it.
The lights went out at 7:18. Completely. No flicker. No warning. Dark.
Conversation stopped. Someone laughed.
A man near the bar said:
“Well, that’s dramatic.”
Catalina moved before she consciously understood why. Isabel. Her arms were already reaching. Sloane transferred her immediately. No argument.
No hesitation. Catalina tucked her daughter against her chest. Emergency lighting should have engaged. It didn’t. Her wolf rose.
Not aggressively. Alert. Catalina smelled the room. Champagne. Flowers.
Perfume. Wax. Metal. Human. Wolf.
Sloane. Isabel. Marcus somewhere to her left. Security near the entrance. Everything familiar.
Then— Something wasn’t. Catalina went still. Her wolf did too. Not a scent exactly.
An absence where something should have been. Her instincts searched for a category. Human. No. Wolf.
No. Animal. No. Her wolf pressed backward. Catalina’s stomach dropped.
Her wolf did not retreat. Ever.
“Sloane.”
“Here.”
“Behind me.”
“Already am.”
A crash came from the main gallery. Glass. Then shouting. Marcus’s voice cut through the darkness.
“Lock it down!”
Movement erupted. Guests screamed. Catalina heard security running. Another crash. Then a body struck something hard enough to crack it.
Isabel began crying. Catalina pressed her face against her daughter’s hair.
“It’s okay.”
It wasn’t.
“Back corridor,” Sloane said.
Catalina nodded. They had reviewed the building before the event. Not because Catalina expected trouble.
Because Marcus Peña had been protecting Oteros longer than Catalina had been alive and considered complacency a communicable disease.
Twelve feet behind them. Staff door. Service corridor. Security office. Catalina reached for Sloane.
Found her wrist.
“Stay on me.”
“Yep.”
They moved. Isabel cried against Catalina’s chest. Catalina hated the sound. Not because it was loud. Because she couldn’t stop it.
Three steps. Four. Turn. Someone ran past the far end of the gallery. Too fast.
Catalina stopped. What the fuck?
“Sloane.”
“I saw it.”
“You couldn’t see anything.”
“I saw something.”
So had Catalina. Not clearly. Movement. A shape crossing darkness faster than a human could. Faster than most wolves in human form.
The emergency lights flickered. Red washed the corridor. Catalina saw the staff door. She grabbed the handle. Locked.
“Of course.”
“Move.”
Catalina looked at Sloane.
“You’re pregnant.”
“I’m aware.”
“Sloane—”
“Move.”
Catalina stepped aside. Sloane kicked beside the latch. The door shook. Again. Wood splintered.
Catalina stared. Sloane pushed it open.
“Thirty-five weeks.”
“Shut up.”
They went through. The corridor was narrow. Industrial. Ugly. Safe enough.
Catalina moved quickly. Not running. She couldn’t run properly carrying Isabel. Sloane couldn’t run properly carrying Sloane. Twenty feet.
Security door. Then a man stepped into the opposite end of the corridor. Catalina stopped. Sloane stopped behind her. He wore a dark suit.
No mask. No gloves. Nothing covering his face. That bothered Catalina immediately. People committing multimillion-dollar robberies generally preferred anonymity.
He didn’t seem concerned. Late thirties, maybe. Dark hair. Pale skin. Ordinary enough.
Except Catalina’s wolf wanted away from him. Not attack. Away. That frightened her more than his presence. His eyes moved over Catalina.
Then Sloane. Then Isabel. He paused. Not long. Enough.
Catalina shifted Isabel behind her body. His gaze returned to Catalina.
“Where is it?”
His voice was calm. Catalina said nothing.
“The emerald.”
Not the necklace. Not the collection. The emerald.
